Dragon Eyes
by The Blue-Eyed Mage
Summary: Skyrim is in turmoil. Nord brothers spill their own blood, the High King's throne sits empty after the murder of Torygg at the hands - or rather, the voice - of Ulfric Stormcloak, and now an ancient evil has seemingly been resurrected, ready to devour all in its path, flesh and soul. And the fate of Tamriel lies with a Bosmer who has grown bitter and tired of life.
1. The Cold Road to Helgen

'_And the scrolls have foretold_

_Of black wings in the cold,_

_That when brothers wage war come unfurled;_

_Alduin, Bane of Kings,_

_Ancient shadow unbound,_

_With a hunger to swallow the world.'_

Song of the Dragonborn

* * *

**The Cold Road to Helgen**

The cool, white murk of Skyrim mist.

The twittering of birds among snow-capped trees.

The delicate, pale rays of the sun as it shone down from its lofty seat in Kynareth's sky.

This was what Ralof would experience before his death, not fear or bitterness or deep regrets. He was at peace with his life and the cause he had given it to, and there was no heaviness in his heart. His only sadness came from the fact that he knew Gerdur would never know what had happened to him. Oh, she would guess, and most likely she would be right, but she would never _know _just _how _he had died. She would mourn for him without the final farewell of a burial to ground her, without the sympathy of neighbours to comfort her, for everyone in Riverwood knew that Ralof had left to join the Stormcloaks, and anyone who openly wept for a Stormcloak was frowned upon and called a traitor. Ralof sneered when he thought of that. Traitor! That _he _should be called a traitor by the supporters of those Imperial dogs, he could take – let the mindless puppets and servants of the Empire continue in their ignorance, he cared nothing for what they thought – but that Gerdur should be forced to hide the tragedy of her own brother's death, to find no peace even in which to grieve…_That _he could not stand.

Ralof put the unhappy thought out of his mind. When he thought of his beloved older sister, he wanted to think of her happy, living peacefully at the mill with her husband and her son, the way the people of Skyrim _used _live, before all of this. He hoped that that way of life would return to some degree now that the war was over, even if the people of Skyrim were still not free of the shackles of the Empire. Surely a little village like Riverwood would be able to carry on as it pleased, without anyone being any the wiser? Or perhaps the rebellion _wouldn't _be defeated? Perhaps it would carry on regardless, still fighting to free Skyrim, still fighting for the glory of Talos? Ralof smiled, sadly. No. That hope was crushed the moment he looked across at the person sitting opposite him, just to his left, at the end of the wagon. Ralof really _did _wish that Gerdur could know how he had died…

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak sat hunched over, with his hands bound before him, a figure as strong, poised, and menacing as a sabre cat, draped in dark furs, and with a gag over his mouth. Ralof thought yet again about what an honour it was to be with the Jarl, to die at his side, to have fought with him until the very end. If the soothing caress of the light and air of his homeland was not enough to settle Ralof before the time came, to share his final moments with Jarl Ulfric certainly was.

It was an absurdly simple trap to have wandered in to really. Word had reached Windhelm of an Imperial attack on Darkwater Crossing, a vital source of corundum for the Stormcloak army. Perhaps deceit should have been expected, but Darkwater Crossing was too valuable a resource to risk losing, and Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric's second in command, always had a burning passion of impatience whenever it came to Imperial scum attacking some remote place where loyal Stormcloak allies were guaranteed to be defenceless. In this case, it was the husbands, sons, and even the daughters of Windhelm itself who had volunteered to go down the mines for the Stormcloak cause, and who had apparently been trapped and wounded following an Imperial raid. Galmar would have led the convoy to Darkwater himself, had not Ulfric insisted on taking responsibility, leaving his shield-brother to defend Windhelm in his absence. If anything, Windhelm had been thought to be the likely target. Instead, it was the convoy that had been ambushed. Ralof had been puzzling over it for days, and had concluded that there must have been an Imperial informer in the Palace of the Kings or in the guards barracks, otherwise the Imperials could never have known that Ulfric himself would be heading to Darkwater. The Jarl seldom dared to leave Windhelm.

And so here they were, trundling down that long, cold road to meet their fate, bathed in silver light and silence, as though Skyrim herself mourned at their defeat. They had been on the road for almost two days, passing through the ashen-grey woods and fertile scrub fields of jagged Eastmarch, until it melted away in to the dense black forests and dramatic cliffs and slopes of the Falkreath Hold (Ralof could not help but notice that they were avoiding the Rift as best they could, probably for fear of encountering Stormcloak patrols. The Imperials were getting jumpy, being in Stormcloak territory for too long.) Ralof and the Jarl had been thrown in to the last wagon like so much garbage, with the Imperial soldiers taking great care to gag Ulfric. They had obviously heard the rumours of what he had done to High King Torygg. But in with them had been thrown two more prisoners, neither of them fellow Stormcloaks. One confessed himself to be a horse thief, who had taken notice of the convoy stationed just outside Darkwater Crossing, and had intended to steal one of the armoured steeds, but in an instant had found himself surrounded by Imperials. The other, however, was unconscious – clearly injured – and had not stirred since being tossed in to the wagon two days ago. An Imperial healer had visited their wagon a few times since they had departed from Darkwater to take the fourth prisoner out and attend to their condition, and from what Ralof had overheard, his unnamed travelling companion had been found after falling from a tree during the Imperial ambush. The prisoner's unconsciousness was not down to their injuries, which Ralof had gathered were far from serious, but rather was being induced by the healer on command of the Imperial Captain, as she apparently did not trust 'the likes of that.'

This made Ralof irresistibly curious about the prisoner, no less so because their face was covered by a hood and tattered scarf, so all Ralof could see of them was a thin, pointed nose, a complexion that appeared to be a pale, subtle brown, and a lock of tawny hair peeking out from under the hood. He was almost certain that it was a woman, though the ragged brown smock and trousers were loosely fitted, and her upper body was swamped in a brown shawl, so it was not exactly easy to tell. She was fairly tall and appeared to be of a slight build (again, the rags swamped her body,) but the hands that were bound in front of her had strong, sinewy fingers, and Ralof could tell that they were the hands of an experienced archer, despite their thin, feminine shape. He knew that Darkwater Crossing was a quiet, out of the way place where poor travellers who did not want any questions asked about their past could go and find good work, and he wondered if perhaps this stranger was a newcomer in Skyrim – A refugee who had fled their origins in the hopes of earning some coin? Or stealing some.

As Ralof looked on the prisoner (she was slumped directly in front of him,) he wished that she was awake so that he might have someone to talk to on his last journey. Jarl Ulfric had been gagged, and the horse thief…Well, the horse thief had already made it clear what he thought of the Stormcloaks. Just as Ralof thought he would have to go back to looking at the landscape of Skyrim, drinking in every last detail of his land before he departed forever to Sovngarde, there was a slight movement from under the brown shawl. The shapely hands twitched one finger at a time, as though the prisoner was just starting to feel her bonds, and then, after a few moments of eyelids fluttering in confusion, Ralof found himself looking in to a pair of extraordinarily dark, luminous, almond-shaped eyes.

"Hey, you!" Ralof urged, bending his head slightly to look in to the prisoner's concealed face. "Finally awake."

His words were greeted with a blank, penetrating stare, and then the prisoner raised her head from the corner of the wagon, casting a brief glance at the bound hands of Jarl Ulfric and the horse thief, and up at the mist-shrouded treetops of the surrounding forest. Ralof could not tell if she was calm or confused, but he expected the latter.

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" he asked, curious to see if this really was a refugee who had been looking for work at Darkwater Crossing. "Walked right in to that Imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief over there."

At this, the horse thief sitting next to Ralof bristled in anger.

"Damn you Stormcloaks!" he spat, bitterly. "Skyrim was fine until you came along! Empire was nice and lazy…If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!" He turned, desperately to the hooded prisoner. "You there! You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Ralof gave a short, sardonic laugh.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," he said, resignedly.

"Shut up back there!" came an irritable bark from the wagon driver. Ralof cast a hateful glance at the back of the Imperial helmet, and a moment of silence fell on the group.

"What's wrong with _him_, huh?"

Ralof looked up to see the pitiful horse thief staring at the gagged Jarl Ulfric, who stared back with wolf-like eyes.

"Watch your tongue!" Ralof snapped, his loyalty prodded by the horse thief's ignorance. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

Ulfric did not so much as blink at Ralof's words, nor at the horse thief's obvious shock, nor even when that oddly silent, hooded stranger also turned to look at him.

"Ulfric?" the horse thief gasped, still staring like an imbecile. "The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion! But if they've captured _you…?" _The thief suddenly turned to look up the road ahead, which was now brightly lit thanks to the parting of the clouds. "Oh, gods! Where are they taking us?"

Ralof exchanged a brief look with the hooded prisoner, who stared at him with those gleaming, deep brown eyes, and then sighed, and turned to look up the road himself. They were approaching the edge of the forest, and over the top of the procession of wagons, he could just make out the battlements of a wall surrounding a settlement, manned by Imperial guards.

"I don't know where we're going," Ralof muttered, letting his shoulders slump. "But Sovngarde awaits."

All four sets of eyes turned to look as a pair of great wooden gates opened to allow the procession through, Imperial guards signalling to each other and calling out orders. Ralof glanced over his shoulder at the sound of heavy breathing, and saw the horse thief beholding the open gates and the guards with wide, terrified eyes.

"No!" he babbled, senselessly, his face blanched with fear. "No, this can't be happening! This isn't happening..!"

Ralof shot a withered glance at Jarl Ulfric, but found that the Jarl was sitting with head bowed and eyes closed, clearly offering his final prayer to the gods. A ghost of fear seemed to make its way in to Ralof's heart at that moment, and he found his head snapping round to look at the approaching gates himself. Was the end really so close? Was he prepared? Could he be as calm in the face of his death as Jarl Ulfric? What did he wish his last prayer to be, and would he have time to make it? But as the sounds of normal Skyrim life drifted through the gates towards them – life that Ralof had not seen for so many months now on his constant duty in the wilderness at the Stormcloak outposts, and on his training and guard duty in the quiet, frozen city of Windhelm – he suddenly found his mind filled with a peaceful image of Riverwood, with the river glistening in the sun, and the watermills turning gently, and the large old tree stump around the back of the house where he and Gerdur had played as children.

"Hey," Ralof breathed with a warm smile. "What village are you from, horse thief?"

He turned his head slowly to look at his companion, his fellow Nord. Better to think of him like that now, seeing as the two of them were about to face their deaths together. The horse thief looked bewildered at Ralof's question, and his voice still quivered with fear.

"Why do you care?" he asked like a difficult child.

A pleasant feeling of calm had stolen over Ralof, however, like he was lying on the warm, sunlit grass back on the banks of the gurgling river in Riverwood without a care in the world, and he directed his answer both to the horse thief and to Jarl Ulfric, who was now looking up at Ralof with a serious gaze;

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

The silence that came over the wagon was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Ulfric kept steadily regarding Ralof with his hard, dark blue eyes, and gave his soldier a small, approving nod. The peculiar eyes of the stranger seemed to shift slightly as though at some thought or memory. It was only a small movement, but it somehow conveyed the deepest sense of pain, heartbreak, and loneliness imaginable, and it brought forth Ralof's sympathy for whatever tragedy this traveller might have suffered. The horse thief, meanwhile, stared, unwaveringly at Ralof, as though trying to judge his sincerity. A touch of calm had come to his face, and after a few more moments of beholding Ralof's weary expression, the thief swallowed, deeply, and parted his dry, cracked lips.

"Rorikstead," he said, quietly. "I…I'm from Rorikstead."

The wagon was passing through the gate now, casting a brief, grey shadow over the four prisoners, but as they cleared the archway, Ralof lifted his head so that the re-emerging sun would blast full in to his face. He listened, intently to the tramping of running feet around him, to the sounds of people calling to each other from their porches, to the rattling of hay carts being pulled aside for the Imperials to come through, and inhaled the smell of stables, smoking chimneys, and a blacksmith forge with iron being heated on the coals. It was nice to be back in a bustling Skyrim town, even for a moment. But, over the familiar and comforting noise of life, and the babbling of the thief sat next to him as he frantically called out for the Divines, Ralof heard another sound that suddenly brought out the warrior in him, flooding every inch of him with a consuming, white-hot hatred;

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

"Good," a gruff voice came in reply to the guard's report. "Let's get this over with."

Ralof looked about for the owner of the voice, as did Jarl Ulfric, and finally spotted him mounted on his horse near the gate, clad in his leather General's breastplate, and a tunic of Imperial scarlet, his iron grey hair cropped in the traditional military fashion of Cyrodiil. Then the hate within Ralof grew as he noticed the tall, regal woman sitting on the horse opposite the General, adorned in rich, purple and gold robes, and accompanied by two guards dressed in similar colours. Her pale golden skin was of a marble-like lustre, her swept-back hair as pale and dazzling as an Elsweyr sand dune, her slanted eyes like dark yellow diamonds, and her ears incredibly long, thin and pointed. She was not human, that was for certain. She was an Altmer, a High Elf, and an important looking one at that. She could not be less than a member of the Thalmor, an ambassador of the Aldmeri Dominion.

"Look at him!" Ralof growled, glaring at the Imperial General's back. "General Tullius, the military governor! And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves! I bet they had something to do with this!"

Ralof looked down at his bound hands and wished, wished with all his heart, that he could break free of his bonds, and go over and pummel that round, Cyrodilic head, and strangle the Thalmor bitch until her bright, elven eyes popped! He clenched his fists, tightly, and shut his eyes…No…

Over on a porch, Ralof could hear children playing, and that instantly brought him back to his gentle reminiscences of Riverwood and his time as a boy. The warm smile returned to his face as he looked up, and as an Imperial tower sailed through his line of vision, he glanced around him and realised where they were with a pang of sweet nostalgia.

"This is Helgen," he said to his companions, pleased at how little the familiar town had changed in the many years since he had last seen it. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in?"

They were rounding the corner of the keep now, and as the wagons lined up in the courtyard, and Ralof saw parents ushering their children indoors, he looked up at the nearest watchtower with a hollow laugh.

"Funny…When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Now they hemmed him in, trapping him in their shadow, with the only place to go being the centre of the courtyard, where a robed priestess waited…alongside a tall, burly man in a black mask, with a large, blood-stained axe…

"Get these prisoners out of the carts!" the testy Imperial Captain screeched, as the last wagon containing Ralof, Ulfric, the horse thief, and the hooded stranger came to a halt. _"Move it!"_

"Why are we stopping?" the horse thief yelped, as the Imperial soldiers began yanking people from the wagons, and pulling them before the Captain. Ralof looked at the poor, terrified man with a grim smile.

"Why do you think? End of the line."

Ralof looked up the line of wagons, and watched as his comrades – true sons and daughters of Skyrim, every one of them – were presented before the Captain and another soldier, who seemed to be reading their names from a list, and then made their way over to the headsman's block. Ralof stared. That other soldier standing with the Captain…Could it be..?

Just then, a pair of soldiers thumped on the side of their wagon, and ushered Jarl Ulfric to stand up, though Ralof noticed that they did not handle him as they had done with the other prisoners. They stood back, and allowed him to get down from the wagon himself. Ralof took a deep breath. This was it.

"Let's go," he said to the hooded stranger, who still hadn't uttered a single word (Ralof wondered if perhaps she was one of those rare instances of someone who could not speak Tamrielic, but she certainly seemed to look at him as though she understood.) "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

He slowly stood up to follow Jarl Ulfric, but found that the horse thief in front of him was paralysed with fear. The Imperial soldiers reached in and grabbed him by his tunic, pulling him struggling and writhing down on to the brown earth of the courtyard.

"No, wait, we're not rebels!" the thief yelled, desperately, as he was shoved in to line next to Ulfric to stand before the Imperial Captain.

"Face your death with some courage, thief!" Ralof called with a disgusted snort. No matter what, _he_ would go to die like a true Nord. He was ready for it now.

Ralof glanced down at the hooded prisoner, allowing her to go ahead of him, but as she tried to stand up, she appeared to stagger. The effects of whatever the healer had given her to keep her in a deep sleep had apparently not quite worn off yet. Ralof moved to try and help her, but before he could do anything, the Imperial soldiers had grabbed her, and yanked her out of the wagon, the brown shawl whipping away to reveal of a pair of long, slender arms, with skin the colour of deer hide.

"Step towards the block when we call your name!" the Imperial Captain commanded from under her crested, steel helmet; "One at a time!"

Ralof almost smirked at the sight of the relatively short, Imperial woman, snarling and growling like a troll in her huge, steel-plated armour. But the smirk died before it had even begun when Ralof finally got a good look at the soldier who stood next to the Captain with the list of names.

Hadvar. By the gods…

"Empire loves their damn lists," Ralof said, loud enough for Hadvar to hear him as he jumped down from the wagon. There was no reaction, but Ralof suspected that Hadvar already knew he was there. He had the names of all the prisoners, after all.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," Hadvar began to recite, putting his head down and reading off the names of the condemned Stormcloak soldiers, one by one; "Jarl of Windhelm."

Ulfric stalked out of line and went without question to join his soldiers already waiting by the block, looking at no one. Ralof stared, forlornly after him as he went.

"It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric," he muttered under his breath.

Hadvar consulted his list once again, and called out the next name with an unwavering voice of stone;

"Ralof of Riverwood."

Ralof did not hesitate. He walked forward, pausing only for a second to see if he could catch the eye of his kinsman. Hadvar did not look up from his list. Shaking his head, Ralof walked, determinedly towards the block and the waiting shadow of the headsman, and stood among his fellow Stormcloaks. Jarl Ulfric had been seized first, and brought before that cur General Tullius, who looked on Ulfric with cool, emotionless eyes. Ralof had thought that they would make no hesitation is executing Jarl Ulfric, but instead, the Imperials stood ready, waiting, watching. So, they were going to make a show of it were they? Ralof glanced back towards the wagons to see how many prisoners were left. He didn't want this to drag on all day. Let them send him on his way to the glimmering lights and echoing songs of Shor's Hall, for the love of Talos!

There were only two more prisoners to be summoned to the block – The whimpering horse thief and the hooded stranger, who was standing as still and as quiet as ever. Hadvar bent his head, and consulted his list once again;

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

The horse thief instantly ran forward, panting and quivering in terror.

"No!" he screamed, almost weeping. "I'm not a rebel! You _can't _do this!"

There was a movement of horror among the watching prisoners, and Ralof sighed in despair as Lokir the horse thief dashed past the Imperial Captain, and ran, frantically up the stone flagged road.

"_Halt!" _yelled the furious Captain, but it was clear that Lokir had no intention of stopping.

"You're not gonna kill _me!" _were his final words that could be heard from the courtyard, before the Imperial Captain raised her steel bracered arm, and everyone knew what was about to happen.

"Archers!"

A swarm of arrows flew from several front porches, and there was a choked scream from somewhere beyond the corner of the keep where Ralof could not see, and then nothing. Ralof bowed his head.

The Imperial Captain turned to the many staring, hateful eyes that watched her from the centre of the courtyard.

"Anyone else feel like running?" she barked, attempting to stare her prisoners down, but the Stormcloaks were steadfast in their shaming stares, some of them even jeering at her attempts to intimidate them. The Captain was visibly infuriated, and made to march over to the group of glaring, stony-eyed rebels, but Ralof saw Hadvar, after a few moments of checking his list in apparent confusion, tap the Captain on her arm, and turn to the one remaining prisoner who had yet to join the Stormcloaks at the block;

"Wait! You there. Step forward."

Ralof watched, intently, as the hooded woman walked forward with a kind of elegance that was remarkable given the situation. Hadvar looked her up and down in bewilderment.

"Who are you?" he asked.

There was nothing but a long moment of silence in which the prisoner looked steadily between Hadvar and the Imperial Captain.

"Didn't you hear him?" the Captain snapped, marching forward, and grabbing at the prisoner's hood. "State your name!"

With a yank, the make-shift hood was pulled down, and the scarf fell to the ground, revealing the prisoner's face for the first time. For a moment, Ralof was surprised as he took in the pointed chin, the high, sleek cheekbones, the stripes of dark war paint on the woman's pristine, delicate brown skin, the overall elegant but wild look of her face, and her long, thin, pointed ears.

But then he thought about it, and he realised that the suspicion had been lurking at the back of his mind the entire time. Though he had not been able to see her face, he had known that there was no way those large, dark, glassy eyes could belong to a human of Cyrodiil or Hammerfell or High Rock.

And certainly not of Skyrim.


	2. The Dragon and the Elf

**The Dragon and the Elf**

"Tralana Dwin'eplith," Tralana replied, solemnly, as she lifted her gaze to stare, frostily at the Captain who had torn away her hood. She would know that fiery, authoritarian bark anywhere, and it was nice to finally see the face that it belonged to, for she had previously only ever heard it when she was on the edge of consciousness in a potion-induced stupor, all thanks to that bothersome healer. Her eyes scanned the crowd in the courtyard for him, but she could not seem to find him anywhere. Pity. She would rather have liked to have given him a taste of his own medicine before she escaped from this mess.

Being unconscious for what appeared to have been days had put Tralana at a serious disadvantage, but she had managed to learn some things in her brief period of wakefulness, and also remembered small snatches of information from when she had been dragged to that healer to have her injuries treated and to prolong her unconsciousness. She was in Skyrim, a fact that she had not known some days ago, when she must have entered the country. She had been dying of cold up in the Velothi Mountains, with no food, save what little she had been able to shoot and bag with her bow, and since her horse had been killed, she had merely wandered aimlessly to where it was warmer (though not _much _warmer, it had to be said,) and had ended up on a volcanic tundra, where she had managed to find a hot spring to soothe her frozen joints. The spring, as it turned out, had been home to some rather irritable, large grey crabs, but Tralana had made quick work of them with her dagger. After days of hunger, boiled crab meat had never tasted so good.

Tralana did not know at that point where she was, though it had quickly become apparent to her that this new landscape was rife with vicious wolf packs. Wolves weren't really a problem in Valenwood (at least not compared to the Hoarvor ticks, werevultures, Land Dreugh, giants, minotaurs, and satyrs,) but the wolves of Skyrim seemed strangely unresponsive to Tralana's Commands. Perhaps she was just weakened from her many days in the Velothi Mountains without shelter? In any case, Tralana was used to dealing with dangerous animals. It was the _people_ of Skyrim that were worrying her more.

After finally coming across a lazily flowing river and deciding to follow its course, Tralana had suddenly discovered a thatched, stone hut out in the middle of the wilderness, with a vegetable garden planted outside, and the entrance of what appeared to be a mine close by. The stars were out, along with that beautiful Skyrim aurora, and the moons were enormous in the sky, but, despite the fact that it was not exactly a dark night, Tralana had decided to risk trying to pick the lock of the hut, as there didn't seem to be anyone about (The handful of small tents close to the entrance of the mine were all curiously empty.) However, just as she had fitted a lockpick in to the keyhole, Tralana's acute sense of hearing alerted her to the sound of swiftly approaching horses, and she looked, frantically about her for some cover. It didn't take long for her instincts as a Bosmer to assert themselves, and her eyes settled on a nearby fir tree, which had textured enough bark for her to scale with the aid of her dagger, and sufficient foliage at the top for her to hide in. Tralana immediately scuttled up the tree.

The thundering of hooves and armour grew louder and louder, and from her position in the dark top of the fir, Tralana had seen the fiery flickering of torches before the dark river of soldiers, bandits, whatever they were, had themselves charged in to view. They were a peculiar looking troop, around two dozen of them, their weapons of mismatched iron and steel swords and war axes, their helmets iron and horn, leather, hide, and even a few rare examples of corundum and orichalcum. But there was one thing that identified them as comrades – The identical chainmail and leather cuirasses that they wore, with a sash of bright blue cloth draped around it. And at their head, astride a fine, dapple grey horse that was impressively bedecked in ebony and chainmail armour, was a tall, stern-faced man, cloaked in black and grey furs, and with hair like a lion's mane. He'd halted his troops a short distance from the silent hut and the mine, clearly suspicious or wary of something, but of what, Tralana couldn't tell. Everything seemed to be quiet and still.

Well, it had at first. But Tralana was proved wrong in her assumption just a few minutes later, when, with a powerful, unified roar, a great flood of soldiers suddenly burst forth from the mine, the hut, the surrounding woodlands, and even from the river. They swarmed over the crest of the nearby hill, engulfing the two dozen other disarrayed and less well equipped soldiers in what seemed like a small sea of people, and soon, swords were clashing, axes were hacking, war hammers came crashing down and shattered armour, and the soil became drenched with blood. It did not take long to judge from Tralana's startling view that the mass of attention seemed to be on the dark-robed leader of the blue soldiers – Some fought to protect him, but the overwhelming desire was without doubt to drag him from his horse and seize him. He swung at his foes with a blade of glistening moonstone and blue malachite, which seemed to shoot ice as it hit, and sent frozen droplets of crimson blood flying above the heads of the soldiers. In all honesty, despite her great confusion and fright at the sudden battle that had erupted below her, Tralana had found herself mesmerised by the warrior's powerful and ruthless defence as he somehow managed to stay upright on his horse, resisting the efforts of his enemies to knock him down.

And then, it had happened. It had seemed to come from nowhere and without warning, and Tralana could still not make sense of it even now that her head was mostly clear of whatever that healer had been giving her. Indeed, she was half convinced that it was all just a peculiar dream, brought on by the vile potion; but she remembered clearly the dreams she had had while asleep, and they were the same as ever (Tralana only ever dreamt about flying.) _This _was quite different. There had been a roar of a strange yet somehow familiar word, an almighty boom that could have been heard from miles away, a flash of blue light like a raging tidal wave on a chaotic, glowing ocean, and then Tralana had suddenly found herself flung from her tree like a ragdoll, and plummeting towards the earth. That was the last clear thing that she remembered (aside from dreams,) before waking up in that cold, uncomfortable wagon opposite a rugged Nord with long yellow hair, ice blue eyes, and a thick braid on one side of his rough and dirty face. It was as though she had somehow been knocked down with an invisible fist – with several invisible fists, actually – and what made it even stranger was that she could have sworn that the deafening boom had come from the very throat of the man on the dapple grey stallion. Tralana was no stranger to magic, but she had never heard of a spell or ability like that before.

Well, whatever it was, it had landed her in the most inconvenient situation. The soldiers who had attacked the Nord on the grey stallion and his troops had been Imperial legionnaires, Tralana had seen that straight away, and from what had been said in the wagon, it seemed that there was some sort of rebellion going on in Skyrim, led by this man, this Ulfric Stormcloak, as she had heard him called. That was certainly nothing new, as far as the Empire was concerned. Valenwood had had a turbulent enough political history with the Septim emperors, and had only managed to find some semblance of peace by isolating itself from all foreign governments. Of course, that was before…

"Not many Wood Elves would choose to come alone to Skyrim."

Something savage pulled at Tralana's heartstrings, but she fought down the memory, and looked up to see the Nord legionnaire stood next to the Imperial Captain writing down her name.

"Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

The Captain folded her arms, defensively, her steel bracers clattering together.

"Forget the list," she said, glancing at Tralana, suspiciously from the corner of her eye. "She goes to the block."

A brief look of horror and uncertainty came to the Nord soldier's face, but it was quickly suppressed, as he made the necessary amendment to his notes.

"By your orders, Captain," he nodded, his voice monotone and lacking either sadness or disappointment, but also conviction and zeal. His eyes said it all, however, as he turned to look at Tralana. They were pleading for forgiveness.

"I'm sorry," he said. "We'll make sure your remains are returned to Valenwood. Follow the Captain, prisoner."

The guilt in the Nord's eyes rather amused Tralana, it contrasted so drastically with the lack of concern in her own heart. All that mattered to her was that she was going home to Valenwood. Maybe not in one piece, but she was going home nevertheless. Death, as the holy people of Silvenar said, was merely death. She had been clinging on to life without reason for too long now, and had actually thought of lying down and letting the cold in the Velothi Mountains take her. If a swing of the headsman's axe ended it all and brought her home to the steaming, whispering jungles of Valenwood, before she was cast in to the Abecean Sea (it would take a long time for her body to be brought from Skyrim to Valenwood, so there could be no fate for it other than that,) then she was satisfied. Happy, even. After all the fighting, all the struggle, it was _finally _over…

Calm and collected, Tralana trudged after the armoured Imperial Captain, and took her place in the line-up of Stormcloak rebels, next to the talkative Nord with the yellow braid who she had shared the wagon with. She saw him looking at her intently, questioningly, and slowly turned her head to stare back at him. The once friendly Nord now wrinkled his aquiline nose, and turned away with a disgusted curling of the lip. Tralana gave a short, low tut of laughter. She understood. He didn't like elves. No one did these days. Not even other elves.

Heads turned as General Tullius, the military governor, suddenly began speaking, loudly and threateningly, to the gagged leader of the Stormcloak rebels.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," he said with an air of finality, as though this was the conclusion of a long and weary battle; "Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to _murder _his king and usurp his throne!"

Ulfric growled something from behind his gag, glaring with eyes of poison at Tullius.

"_You_ started this war!" Tullius yelled, drowning out Ulfric's muffled grunts. "Plunged Skyrim in to chaos! And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace..!"

Eyes lifted and a moment of stunned silence fell on the courtyard, however, as the General's impassioned speech was suddenly interrupted by a strange, echoing cry. It did not come from within Helgen. Nor could Tralana imagine it being made by any man, elf, beast-man or animal nearby. It was a distant, sky-piercing roar that chilled the bones, and sounded unlike anything Tralana had ever heard, though it certainly _seemed_ to sound like the roar of a living creature. But it would have to have been larger than any living creature known to Tamriel, as its cry seemed to come from a great distance away, and yet was disturbingly loud.

"What _was _that?" the Nord soldier who had taken Tralana's name said, though his face for a moment seemed to take on a look of horrified realisation, as though he already knew.

"It's nothing," General Tullius said, dismissively, visibly chagrined that an ill-timed noise had ruined his speech. "Carry on."

The General strode to one side, giving Ulfric a passing glance as he went, which Tralana could not help but notice looked more like disappointment than hatred or triumph. This did not seem to be a fight that General Tullius had taken any glory in, and he walked away from it with quiet relief and disdain.

"Yes, General Tullius!"

Tralana winced. The Imperial Captain, on the other hand, was still just as loud, arrogant, and full of zeal as ever, and she turned to the priestess who stood waiting in reverent silence next to the headsman.

"Give them their last rites."

With an obliging smile, the priestess raised her arms, and began to pray in an ethereal, sing-song voice;

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you. For you are the salt of the earth of N…"

"_For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with!"_

The shout had come from a disgruntled Stormcloak soldier, who stormed forward and fairly shoved the priestess out of the way to get to the block. The priestess staggered back in indignation, glaring at the brazen Stormcloak with angry eyes and reddened cheeks.

"As you wish," she huffed, before nodding her excuses to the Captain, and slinking away back towards the keep.

The tension among the Stormcloak soldiers was starting to build in the form of shuffling feet and despairing or furious looks, as they watched their brave or foolish comrade take his place in front of the block, looking back, expectantly at the Imperial Captain. Even she seemed momentarily startled.

"Come on!" the Stormcloak urged, nodding towards the block. "I haven't got all morning!"

Visibly outraged, the Captain took a moment to collect herself, and then strode forward with her chin in the air, taking hold of one of the Stormcloak's shoulders, and pushing him down on to his knees.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials!" the Stormcloak continued, relentless. "Can you say the same?"

The Captain forcefully shoved her steel boot on to the Stormcloak's back, slamming him down chest-first on to the block, and quietening him. There was an awful moment of stillness in the courtyard.

Tralana noted the strength with which the headsman swung his axe, and how swiftly the head of the Stormcloak soldier was separated from his body with something between a crack and a thump, falling in to the waiting wooden crate in a violent spurt of red. It only took one swing? Impressive. This headsman was obviously skilled at his work. It would be a quick death, if not an entirely painless one, judging by that sound.

"_You Imperial bastards!"_

Screams of anger and horror were erupting from the prisoners as their comrade's headless corpse was pushed from the block, his ruby blood pooling on the hay-strewn stones and earth of the courtyard.

"Death to the Stormcloaks!" the Captain retaliated, glaring her prisoners in to stony silence.

Tralana noticed that the Stormcloak stood next to her – Ralof, if she had heard his name right – stood much quieter and more solemn than the rest, and she minutely turned her head to study his face. He was looking, sadly at the ground where his fallen comrade's body lay – Sadly, but with a profound and deep respect in his eyes.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," she heard him mutter.

"Next, the Wood Elf!"

All eyes turned to Tralana, and she herself deigned to look up, and saw that infernal Captain pointing at her. Well, this was it then.

Just then, another one of those shrill, echoing roars ripped through the air, and everyone's gaze instantly turned skyward. Was it…louder than before? Tralana looked down to see that the only person not examining the clouds was Ulfric Stormcloak, who was looking back at his soldiers in a very meaningful but troubled manner, as though trying to communicate a message with his eyes.

"There it is again," the same anxious Nord legionnaire said. "Did you hear that?"

The Captain merely folded her arms in annoyance, clearly eager to carry on with her duty and build up a pile of heads in the courtyard.

"I said, _next prisoner!"_

The Nord legionnaire shifted, uncomfortably, and turned to Tralana.

"To the block, prisoner," he said with a flat voice. "Nice and easy."

Tralana saw the Stormcloak Ralof watch her as she walked forward, as though in a dream, the blood of the executed soldier seeping in to her flimsy fur shoes. She stepped over the body which still lay huddled near the block, and fell to her knees before the Imperial Captain even touched her. She felt the hard, cold steel of the boot press in to her back, shoving her down with a thump on to the wet wood of the block, and splashing the blood left by the Stormcloak soldier lightly on to her face. The black figure of the executioner loomed above her, with the light of the sun forming a halo around the battlements of the keep behind him, and the crest of a mountain just in view. Tralana smiled, weakly, and thought of Valenwood. She would be with her grandfather soon. She would be with _all _of them soon…

But just as the headsman was starting to lift his axe, another echoing roar sounded, this time accompanied by the distinct sound of gigantic wing-beats. A huge, black shape rose up over the crest of the mountain, soaring down and parting clouds as it went, and as its giant form crossed the sun and cast the shape of its shadow down on to the courtyard, Tralana felt, for the first time in years, true, genuine fear grip her heart.

* * *

"_What in Oblivion is that?" _General Tullius bellowed in terror.

Ralof and the rest of the Stormcloaks reeled back at the sight of the great, winged beast that hovered above the courtyard, looking down with hideous eyes that glowed like dying fire. Ralof had seen the face of Death in battle a dozen times, seen bandits rape, pillage and plunder their way through villages, burning everything in sight, been inches close to the teeth of a wolf when he was as young as eight, and had wandered too far in to the forest alone…But he had _never _seen anything as terrible as this. He didn't want it to be true. It couldn't _possibly _be true! And yet it could be nothing else. The legends were not legends after all.

"_DRAGON!"_

The creature landed with the force of an earthquake on top of the keep, and let forth an almighty roar. A blast of light blinded Ralof, and he fell back on to the dusty stones, his head reeling, and his ears ringing with screams, shouts, and explosions.

"Ralof, get up!"

Ralof opened his eyes to see that the sky had filled with dense grey clouds that moved unnaturally, but he also saw Andor crouched above him, carefully cutting his bonds with the tip of a stolen Imperial sword.

"Not me!" Ralof cried, yanking his now frayed bonds apart. "Jarl Ulfric..!"

"He's already free," Andor said, pulling his shield-brother to his feet. "In the watchtower, on the opposite side of the courtyard. Come on!"

Balls of flame were now inexplicably raining down from the sky, and the strong masonry of Helgen's fort was starting to crash around them, as the great black dragon swept overhead, breathing down fire on the heads of the Imperial archers and mages who were attempting to attack it. Ralof saw his comrades scattering for cover – some of them already lay dead around him – and as he turned about, his gaze suddenly fell on the female Wood Elf. She was still alive. The headsman had not had time to cut her head off, and she was lying in a heap beside the block, clearly dazed by the same flash of light that had confused Ralof. Ralof tried to run, but found that he couldn't. Why? Why did he care about what happened to this elf? His shield-brothers and sisters needed him, Jarl Ulfric needed him…And then he realised. It was because of Lokir. Lokir had also been an innocent caught in the midst of their battle with the Imperials, a man who shouldn't have been there, and who shouldn't have died. Ralof recalled what the horse thief had said to him – "If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!" – and he realised he couldn't leave a feeble Wood Elf who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time out in the middle of a burning courtyard to die. He was not like the Imperials. He would not kill her for something she hadn't done.

"Hey, Wood Elf!"

The elf shook her head, and looked, blearily up at Ralof, her face dappled with blood (Blood that was not her own.)

"Get up!" Ralof urged, keeping his eye on the dragon as it circled Helgen above them. "Come on! The gods won't give us another chance!"

Wiping the blood from her face, the Wood Elf staggered to her feet, and looked, dumbstruck up at the dragon that was still reigning its destruction down upon Helgen, while people – soldiers and townsfolk alike – ran for their lives in every direction. Ralof faltered as a mass of burning stone exploded in the courtyard, not ten feet away from them, filling the air with smoke. The buildings were really starting to collapse.

"_This way!"_

Deciding that he had done all he could, Ralof turned and ran for the watchtower, dodging balls of flame and falling rock that now fell dangerously close to him, so close his skin became hot and was blackened by the smoke, and his nose filled with bitter dust that stung as he breathed. He dashed across the threshold of the tower, and turned to close the door, but found it forcefully kicked wide open again by the Wood Elf, who shot past him like an arrow, and promptly collapsed against the stone wall, panting. Ralof slammed the door, and checked to see who was in the watchtower. Edvin had made it, and was crouched over an injured Dag and Brynja, and Jarl Ulfric thankfully stood uninjured by the door.

"Jarl Ulfric!" Ralof said, as the ground trembled, and the shouts and screams of the panicked and dying Imperials filled the air outside. "What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

Jarl Ulfric looked at Ralof with a stare that was as cold and dark as a frozen pond, and his eyes then flickered to the watchtower door.

"Legends don't burn down villages," he said, severely.

There was another earth tremor, more violent than before, and the force of an explosion hit the watchtower door, fire licking through the jambs. The elf, who had been peering through one of the arrowslits in the masonry, ducked suddenly as flames gushed in through it, and the fierce roar of the dragon sounded from outside.

"We need to move, _now!" _Jarl Ulfric commanded, turning to Edvin, who was starting to haul Dag on to his back, but with some difficulty. Moving Edvin roughly aside, Ulfric flung Dag over his own shoulders, and motioned to Edvin to carry Brynja. It was at this moment that Ulfric suddenly spotted the Wood Elf, crouched beside the wall in a cat-like position of readiness. He looked, questioningly up at Ralof, who suddenly felt the need to get the elf out of Ulfric's sight.

"Up through the tower!" Ralof said, taking the elf under her arm, and forcing her up the steps. "Let's go!"

The two of them ran up the spiral stone stairs, the force of the dragon flying past shaking the very foundations of the tower. Halfway up, they suddenly encountered Andor, knelt over, shifting fallen stones aside.

"Ralof!" he cried in relief. "Quickly, we just need to move some of these rocks to clear the – "

The wall of the tower suddenly exploded inward. Rocks tumbled and dust flew, forcing Ralof and the Wood Elf back.

"_ANDOR!"_

As the dust cleared, Ralof saw only rocks where his friend had been. But he also saw something else, something large and black looking through the newly created hole in the tower, and it turned the pain of his grief in to the pain of intense terror.

"_Get back!" _Ralof threw his arm in front of the Wood Elf, and the two of them ducked on the stairs, as the dragon thrust its head in to the tower, and a storm of fire rushed past them like a burning river.

When the beast removed its head, and Ralof felt the force of it swooping over the top of the tower, there was an almost unbearable lull where the great roaring had been, broken only by the muffled sounds of the destruction that reigned below, and the crumbling of the thickly falling dust, stirred by the stones that had crushed his shield-brother. Running forward a few steps, Ralof looked out over the burning skeleton of Helgen, and saw fireballs thrust by Imperial mages leaping in to the air, but they seemed to have no effect on the creature. He looked down, and saw that the inn was still mostly standing, though there was a large hole in the roof.

"See the inn on the other side?" Ralof said, summoning the crouching Wood Elf over to him. "Jump through the roof and keep going. Go! We'll – "

Without a word, the elf performed a swift, graceful leap from the tower to the inn as though she were avoiding a mere crack in a road, and disappeared through the hole in the roof. Ralof stared after her.

"…Follow when we can."

* * *

Tralana landed, deftly on the upper floor of the inn, and immediately looked about for something sharp to cut her bonds with. The place was in a shambles – The two beds were the only things in the room still standing, and the remnants of chests and dressers lay broken all around her, revealing no dagger, no arrowhead, not even a piece of broken pottery for her to cut the bonds around her wrists. Even the fragments of wood, though jagged, were just smouldering embers, either crumbling in to black dust, or still too hot to touch. With a grunt of annoyance, Tralana ran from the bedroom, across the rickety floorboards, and leapt down a hole in the floor to the ground level. There were charred bodies here. Tralana tried not to look at them as she ran for the open door, trying not to remember…She _couldn't _think of that here…

Dashing out in to the chaos of the burning town, Tralana suddenly heard shouts coming from close by, and peered around a pile of wreckage to see the Nord legionnaire, the one had had looked at her with such sympathy, standing with a middle-aged Nord in iron armour behind the relative safety of a large, destroyed house. Just across from them, a young boy was crouched out in the open over the body of another Nord man, clearly frozen with fear.

"Focus on me!" the legionnaire called to the boy, trying to coax him towards the shelter. "You can do it! Just walk towards me!"

Tralana's eyes became wide with horror as she saw the monstrous black shape of the dragon round the top of one of the battered stone towers, and hover, menacingly in the air for a moment.

"Haming!" the legionnaire was now frantic. "You need to get over here! _Now!"_

The dragon was swooping down upon them like a gigantic vulture, and it was perhaps this that finally compelled the young boy to release the bloody remains of the man he was clinging to, and make a faltering run towards safety.

"That a boy," the legionnaire said, encouragingly. "You're doing great."

Suddenly, the dragon came crashing down on to the earth, its force shaking everything around it, and the boy stumbled and fell. The Nord legionnaire cried out in horror, and made to run towards the boy, but he had only taken a few steps, when a brown blur whisked past him, and before he knew it, Tralana had shoved the boy in to his arms, and was pulling them both behind the ruined house. An explosion of fire then erupted around them as the dragon let out the full force of its fury.

"Gods!" the legionnaire yelled, ushering everyone back behind him. "Everyone get back!"

They retreated out of range of the dragon's flames, but Tralana found herself hit by the strong gust of wind as the dragon once again took off in to the air, and fell, hard on to her front. A pair of hands reached down, however, grabbing her by her bound wrists and hauling her to her feet, and Tralana found herself looking in to the strong, ash-smeared face of the Nord legionnaire.

"Still alive, prisoner?" There was no soft sympathy in his grey eyes this time, only urgency and the iron will of a warrior. "Keep close to me if you want to stay that way."

He turned to the middle-aged, armoured Nord, who had the weeping young boy sheltered under his arm;

"Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defence."

"Gods guide you, Hadvar."

Tralana sprinted after the Nord legionnaire as he made his way, determinedly out in to the open, running for the cover he had apparently already chosen of a narrow alleyway between a house and Helgen's stone wall.

"Stay close to the wall!" he ordered, but Tralana did not need to be told. She could already hear the heavy wing-beats of the dragon, and dived against the stone just in time. The tip of a horned wing suddenly thrust itself down in to the alley as the dragon landed on top of the wall, so close that Tralana could have touched it.

Bodies of Imperial archers tumbled down a set of wooden steps as the dragon breathed its fiery onslaught and then rose in to the air again, but Hadvar led Tralana past them, as they safely cut through a ruined house, and found themselves in front of the gates of Helgen. A mass of Imperial archers and mages were gathered there, desperately throwing all they had at the dragon, and among them was General Tullius.

"Hadvar!" the General called upon seeing Hadvar emerge from the half-standing house. "In to the keep, soldier, we're leaving!"

Hadvar gave a firm nod, and looked back at Tralana.

"It's you and me, prisoner! Stay close!"

Tralana was too wrapped up in her vicious battle against the onslaught of horrendous memories to do anything other than comply (though it did cross her mind that, were she not so desperate, she would never have chosen to follow a man who had just minutes ago passively sent her to the block. But this soldier seemed to know where he was going, and as the amount of cover available was rapidly disintegrating, relying on him seemed like the best and only option. Besides, maybe if she got the chance, she could slit his throat and take his armour?)

The two of them sprinted across Helgen, passing frantic archers and the bodies of dead and wounded townspeople as they went, while the dragon still soared overhead like an oppressing spectre of doom. Tralana could not help staring up at it as it swept low, spreading its black wings. It was terrifying, a creature of unrivalled size and power, its mere presence seeming to electrify the atmosphere. Despite its vicious destruction, there was no doubt that it was a magnificent and awe-inspiring animal. A lord of the skies. What was even more astonishing was that, as it bore the brunt of the assault from the Imperial archers and battle mages, it seemed to _speak_ with a deep, thundering voice that was Daedric in its terribleness, though Tralana could not understand the words it spoke. And yet…

As Tralana and Hadvar approached the entrance of the Imperial barracks, however, a blue-armoured figure suddenly cut across their path, and stood, squarely in their way.

"Ralof, you damned traitor!" Hadvar growled at the sight of the Stormcloak. _"Out of my way!"_

"We're escaping, Hadvar!" Ralof said, brandishing his war axe, and trying to summon Tralana over to him with one hand. "You're not stopping us this time!"

The three of them then ducked to the ground in terror, as the dragon passed so low over their heads, it unseated some of the archers from their posts on the walls, sending them plummeting to the ground.

"_Fine!" _Hadvar said, looking between Tralana and Ralof. "I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

He then dashed for the door of the barracks, while Ralof made for another door that led inside the keep. Well, wasn't _this _a fine situation to be stuck in, Tralana thought to herself. Abandoned in the middle of a burning town while a dragon terrorised the skies, threatening to swoop down and swallow her whole! Death by the blow of a headsman's axe she would have accepted, but a dragon? That did not at all sound like a pleasant way to die.

"Come on!" the voice of Ralof called out suddenly through the destruction. "I can cut you loose inside!"

Tralana twisted round and saw the Stormcloak standing near the entrance to the keep, holding the door open, and beckoning her over. This made no sense! But, Tralana thought as she ran for the safety of the keep, it was better than the prospect of being eaten alive by a dragon, and probably much safer than choosing to go with the man who had been trying to kill her ten minutes ago, no matter how reluctant he had appeared to go through with it.


	3. Beneath the Keep

**Beneath the Keep**

The walls of the keep were holding. Holding, yes, but not for much longer. It seemed like every movement that creature made shook Nirn to its very core, and with its apparent ability to summon fire from the skies themselves, mere stone walls barely stood a chance. It was becoming clear to Tralana that hiding, in this instance, was not an option. They would have to fight their way out. And she was out of her element here, as well as having never seen a dragon before (though to be fair, no one alive on the face of Nirn had seen a dragon before,) so putting her faith in an experienced warrior and native of this land did not seem an unwise course of action. But as soon as they were out of Helgen, she was ditching him. For one thing, he was acting far too kind without having a reason to be.

As they entered the keep, they beheld the body of a newly dead Stormcloak soldier lying there, the gaping wound in his head a clear testament to how he had lost his life. Ralof groaned, and knelt to lay a hand on the soldier.

"We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother," he whispered.

Tralana looked, curiously down at the Stormcloak for a moment, before he seemed to steal himself and stand up, glancing around at the empty keep while the walls continued to shake and trickle dust around them.

"Looks like we're the only ones who made it," his voice was dark and heavy as he spoke, but his face was only strong, betraying no signs of grief. "That…_thing _was a dragon, no doubt. Just like the children's stories and the legends. The harbingers of the End Times."

Tralana didn't have a clue what the Nord was going on about, and in all honesty, she didn't care.

"Do you think we could possibly skip the story and get out of here?" she said, indicating the closed gate nearby. "I hate to break it to you, but there's a lake of fire outside, and a crumbling stone roof over our heads. We haven't exactly got time to chat."

Ralof blinked, stupidly at Tralana.

"What?"

"You can speak," the Nord said with an air of surprise.

"Of course I can speak," Tralana tutted, still impatiently indicating the gate. "You can speak, those people outside can speak…Can't most people speak?"

Ralof simply gaped for a moment, clearly taken aback, but in a second, he shook himself, and lifted his chin a little, looking down at the Bosmer with stern eyes.

"Well, you haven't said a word since I laid eyes on you. I was starting to think you didn't know the language. Not like you can expect an elf who lives like an animal in the forest to know anything other than grunts!"

He tried to pass the comment off like a joke, but Tralana expected that he half meant it. Savages, simple tribal people, thieves, cowards…These were the impressions that most of the outside world seemed to have of Valenwood's people.

"I wouldn't have any trouble understanding you, if that was the case," Tralana said, dryly.

Ralof looked indignant for a moment, but apparently decided to take the comment on the chin.

"We better get moving," he said.

"Excellent suggestion," Tralana replied, heading towards the gate that led down in to the depths of the keep.

Ralof coughed, pointedly.

"Ah…You won't get out that way. It's locked."

"How do you..?" Tralana pulled at the bars of the gate, but found it stuck fast. Rolling her eyes, she turned to Ralof. "It's locked."

"Of course it is. Come here. Let me see if I can get those bindings off."

He produced an iron dagger, and summoned Tralana over to him, which she did with some caution, and presented her bound wrists. The Nord carefully slid the blade between the bindings and pulled, ripping them through with a single cut.

"There you go," he said, and Tralana cradled her sore, red wrists for a moment, licking the angry markings that the bonds had left behind. "You may as well take Gunjar's gear. He won't be needing it anymore."

Tralana knelt down, and began unfastening the buckles of the dead Stormcloak's cuirass, and pulling off the chainmail. There was an iron war axe on his belt, but she ignored it, placing it on the nearby table. Axes weren't really her thing.

"So do all Wood Elves talk like you?"

Tralana paused in her work, and looked up at the living Stormcloak stood in front of her, who still had the slightest air of contempt about him.

"What do you mean?" she asked, as she pulled off the fur boots of the dead Stormcloak.

"Do they all talk like _that?" _Ralof said, vaguely indicating Tralana with a gesture of his hand. "Like an Altmer."

In a flash, the Bosmer's face was mere inches from Ralof's, her dark eyes burning as fierce as the dragon's, and her sloping brow knotted with fury.

"I _do not_ talk like an Altmer!" she snapped, almost gnashing her teeth at Ralof, which he noticed were like tiny white blades, the teeth of a born carnivore.

"Alright," he said, slowly, raising an eyebrow at the outburst. "If you say so. Just get that armour on. I'm going to see if I can find some way out of here."

Tralana glowered after the Nord as he walked over to the wooden gate on the other side of the room. There was no sign of a lever or pull-chain with which to open it, but Ralof grabbed hold of the top of the gate, and did his best to try and yank it down. Tralana, meanwhile, nervously crouched next to one of the chairs by the wooden table, as she exchanged her smock for the Stormcloak cuirass.

"Damn!" Ralof cursed, letting go of the gate with a grunt of annoyance, and looking back at Tralana. "No way to open this from our side."

Tralana stood up, hastily adjusting the cuirass, and turned to face Ralof;

"Well, what do we do now?"

The answer, however, came charging up the darkened corridor behind the wooden gate before Ralof had time to say a word.

"Get this gate open!" a familiar female voice demanded from the shadows.

Ralof ducked in to a corner, and motioned to Tralana to take cover.

"It's the Imperials!" he hissed. "You might want to give that axe a few swings."

"No need," Tralana whispered back, as she focused on the empty space between her hands, moving them as though she were trying to mould the air in to some shape. She was somewhat out of practice for this, but she could still remember the spell. She would just have to make sure that she didn't set fire to anything or anyone that she didn't intend to send up in smoke…

There was a loud click, and the wooden gate slowly lowered, giving the Imperials entry. Tralana saw the flash of steel armour emerging from the shadows, and knew exactly who she was going to go for first.

"_For the sons of Skyrim!" _Ralof made an immediate charge at the approaching Imperials, producing two war axes from his belt, and wielding them both in a furious, swift attack.

There were only two of them – a soldier and the Imperial Captain – and while Ralof made quick work of the soldier with the lightning fast slashing of his blades, Tralana clenched both of her fists in to balls for a moment, made the incantation in her head, and then released a burst of amber flames in to the face of the startled Imperial Captain. That steel helmet was more of a hindrance than a help to her now…

As the Captain fell to the ground, screaming, Tralana dashed to the side of the room, and seized the iron war axe she had left on the table, finding a use for it after all. She kicked off the scalding hot helmet of the Imperial Captain, and slashed her throat, killing her with one fatal swing. Ralof let out a sigh of relief, and approached the unpleasant remains at Tralana's feet.

"Maybe one of these Imperials has the key?" he said, crouching down, and delving in to the pockets of the Captain's tunic. "Let's see here…"

Tralana looked, distastefully at the iron axe in her hand, which now dripped with the scarlet blood of the Imperial woman. No, she thought, dropping it on to the stone floor of the keep. Axes definitely weren't her thing. How Ralof managed to control them with such precision was beyond her.

"Here we are," Ralof grinned, triumphantly, holding up a small, golden key. "Let's see if it opens that door."

Summoning her flames spell back in to her hands, Tralana followed Ralof as he tested his find on the barred gate on the other side of the room. It opened with a click.

"That's it!" Ralof flung the gate open, and hurried out on to the stone stairway that led down in to the bowels of the keep. "Come on. Let's get out of here before that dragon brings the whole tower down on our heads."

* * *

Bringing the whole tower down on their heads turned out to be just the dragon's intention, it seemed, as Tralana and Ralof were met with cave in after cave in wherever they went, one actually occurring just feet away from them as they made their way down to one of the storerooms near the bottom of the keep. With nearly every available corridor blocked by piles of stone, the only route for them seemed to be down, deeper and deeper in to the darkness and silence of the keep, until the roars of the dragon could barely be heard at all. They cleared out Imperials wherever they encountered them, and took whatever useful supplies they could find – Potions, gold, books and the like (Tralana eagerly gathered up any spell tomes she could find, a fact which seemed to make Ralof uneasy, but she had always found magic to be a useful ally, and these Imperial spell tomes were not only full of new knowledge, but also looked as though they would fetch a decent price.) But as they rounded another twist of the endless stone stairway, the stifling, metallic odour of blood caught Tralana's nose, and she flung a hand out to Ralof.

"What is it?" the Nord asked, drawing his axes in readiness.

"Blood."

Ralof looked mildly disappointed, and he examined the crimson stains on his cuirass and on his iron blades in a frustrated manner.

"So? There's plenty of blood on the both of us."

"Not this much," Tralana whispered, making her way down the stairs at a creeping run, her hands glowing, brilliantly in the darkness. "Listen! Do you hear that?"

Ralof shuffled after her, and his ears pricked up at the sound of clashing blades and the thumping of a defending shield. If fighting had erupted this far down in to the keep, it could only mean one thing. His fellow Stormcloaks were down here, battling with the Imperials.

"Let's go!"

He and Tralana charged down towards the source of the noise and the smell, and found themselves in a deeply buried room, lined with maces, daggers, hooks, and other startlingly hideous instruments that appeared to be unique creations. Blood-soaked straw carpeted the stone flagging, and against the far wall stood three large, gruesome cages, built, without doubt, for containing people.

"Troll's blood!" Ralof intoned, almost reeling in horror. "It's a torture room!"

A Stormcloak lay face-down on the oozing straw, and from behind one of the large cages, a woman in a Stormcloak cuirass suddenly burst out, thrashing iron mace and hide shield at a small, hooded Imperial fellow, who came at her relentlessly, shooting sparks of lightning. Partially concealed by the bulk of the large cages, Ralof seized his chance, and instantly stepped out to swing his axe as hard as he could in to the unsuspecting Imperial's chest, hearing him gasp and gurgle for a moment, and then fall to the floor. Suddenly, there was another zing of a blade and a dying choke from behind Ralof, and he spun round to see Tralana standing with blood-soaked dagger in hand, almost gloating over the body of another Imperial, who had clearly been creeping up behind Ralof.

"Now this is _much _more my sort of weapon," Tralana said, admiring the dagger. "Refined, and easy to control. Much less cumbersome than a war axe."

Not wanting to think about how close he had just come to death without even realising it, Ralof turned to the Stormcloak woman, who stood, doubled over and panting, her face marked with the torturer's cuts.

"Inga!" he said, offering her a hand, which she acknowledged but rejected as she straightened herself up. "Was Jarl Ulfric with you?"

"No," the woman breathed, shaking her head, "I haven't seen him since the…dragon showed up." Wide-eyed terror crossed her face. "Ralof, _is _that thing a dragon? It couldn't possibly…"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Ralof said. "Come on, grab everything useful, and let's go. The keep is collapsing on our heads, and that dragon isn't going to stop until Helgen is nothing but a smoking hole in the ground!"

"You can't!" Inga cried suddenly, seizing Ralof's arm. "The next room is swarming with Imperials! We don't stand a chance, we're outnumbered five to two!"

"Three," Ralof corrected her, glancing about for Tralana, but the elf was nowhere to be seen. Just then, a chorus of screams sounded from the next room, accompanied by the roar of fire, and Tralana trotted back in, swinging her steel dagger, casually.

"Bear fat," she replied to Ralof's astonished look. "Imperials had spilled a barrel of it trying to haul it out of the keep."

Ralof gave a short laugh of disbelief. This Wood Elf was turning out to be more useful than he had expected her to be!

"Right. Let's go on ahead, see if the way is clear."

"I'll keep watch in case Ulfric comes through here," Inga said. "This was where the Imperials brought most of our weapons. He might – "

"What?" Tralana's head snapped round and she looked, intently at Inga, her intimidatingly dark eyes bright and alert.

Inga jumped, and stared at the elf in confusion.

"The Imperials, they confiscated our weapons, and stored them down here. Jarl Ulfric might – "

Tralana suddenly dashed past Inga and Ralof, and frantically began rummaging through the many chests and weapon racks that lined the torture room, tossing aside swords and war axes, as though hunting for something in particular. Ralof exchanged a bewildered look with Inga, and then began to approach the elf.

"Hey! There's no time for that, we have to –"

"_Found you!"_

Ralof took a slightly alarmed step back as Tralana suddenly produced a bow and dagger from one of the chests, along with a quiver of arrows. They were all rather beautiful specimens, Ralof couldn't help noticing, the hilt and scabbard of the unusually shaped dagger a glittering black, and the bow one of the most elegant but also one of the most threatening things he had ever seen, jet black and covered in some kind of intricate carvings, and glistening in places with what looked like a peculiar, reddish metal or gem.

"Where in the world..?"

But before he could question her any further, the elf hurried past Ralof in to the next room, fastening the dagger about her waist, and the quiver and bow to her back. The remains of Helgen quaked above them, and Ralof prepared his axes, and turned to Inga.

"I'll see you back in Windhelm, shield-sister," he said, offering her a respectful salute.

"That you will. Talos guide the both of you."

* * *

"What do you think?"

Tralana peered through the gaping hole in the wall, down a roughly cut, dirt tunnel that was overgrown with ferns. Towards the end of it, the distant sound of rushing water could vaguely be heard.

"I think it looks like a death trap," she said.

Ralof couldn't help but agree as he felt the chill in the air.

"No other way to go, though," he said with a resigned sigh. "That last cave in behind us cut us off from the rest of the keep, and there's nothing else down here. This is the only way out."

Selecting an arrow and drawing back her bowstring, Tralana walked, quietly forward in to the tunnel ahead of Ralof, peering in to every dark corner and crevice where a foe could potentially be hiding.

"Bound to be skeevers down here," Ralof continued, wrinkling his nose with disgust, and wading his way through the path of swaying ferns created in the wake of the elf. "Dark and dank…Just right for them. Might even come across a bear or a sabre cat that's decided to make this its cave."

The two of them emerged from the end of the tunnel, and found themselves walking along a narrow, rocky creek, the pale light of Skyrim trickling in through gaps in the rocks above them. They were close to finding a way out now, Ralof could feel it.

"Certainly _seems _to be connected to the outside," he muttered, feeling the cold, strong breeze that whipped along the length of the creek. "Imperials must have started digging this as an escape route or a secret entrance of some kind, expanding the keep. Wonder what stopped them from finishing it?"

He looked down just in time to prevent himself from colliding with Tralana, who was crouched, half concealed by the ferns that grew thickly in the damp conditions.

"Talos!" Ralof hissed, glaring down at her. "What are you – ?"

But he was silenced a moment later when he suddenly saw the huddled, brown shapes that were starting to stir on the earth barely eight feet in front of them, along with the thick layers of downy, grey silk that covered the rocky walls and hung from the ceiling in clumps – Clumps which did not look as though they were entirely composed of silk, judging by the various skeever paws and other disturbing looking limbs that jutted from them. Ralof growled to show his distaste, clutching the handles of his war axes, tightly.

"I _hate _these damn things!" he cried, as the nearest Frostbite Spider reared up, bearing its fangs, and a ball of venom suddenly shot towards them, forcing Ralof to dodge to the side. "Too many eyes, you know? I'll take the two on the right, you line up that bow of yours, and see if you can get a good shot at – "

Ralof staggered back at the sound of four eagle-swift objects whipping through the air beside him, and the Frostbite Spiders suddenly crumbled on their thick, crooked legs, an inexplicable burst of flame rupturing each of their venom sacks, and spilling the vile, greenish liquid on to the earth. He had blinked, and the spiders were suddenly dead!

Stunned, Ralof looked down at his companion, and saw that she was refastening her peculiar bow to her back, its surface now shimmering with an even stranger reddish hue than before.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You told me to see if I could get a good shot. I did."

Ralof walked up to the four spiders, and examined the burning hole in each of their heads. Imbedded deep in to each one was a magnificent black arrow, tipped with what looked like crow's feathers. Ralof was baffled. He hadn't even seen the elf move!

"How could you have fired four arrows so accurately in so little time?" he demanded, yanking one of the arrows from a spider's wound, and wincing at the sight of its vicious, forked head. It had a strange weight and texture to it, almost like crystal, though that could not be what it was made of.

"It's the only proper way to use a bow," Tralana said, reaching over Ralof's shoulder, and taking the arrow. "An archer's eye should be trained as well as their strength and technique. If you hesitate in your aim, it only gives your prey a chance to move further out of range."

There was no denying it now, Ralof was impressed. He thought about how valuable such an aim might be on the frontline of the Stormcloak rebellion. A few hours ago, the thought of an _elf _joining the fight to free Skyrim would have seemed absurd to him, particularly a meek and shifty Wood Elf. But this one was strong, and could certainly have no love for the Imperials now.

"I never asked your name," Ralof said, watching the elf collect the rest of her arrows from the oozing, stinking bodies of the Frostbite Spiders.

Tralana looked up and regarded the Stormcloak, suspiciously. She still didn't entirely trust his inexplicable show of kindness to her.

"Why should you?" she said, digging in to her satchel, and taking out a few of the empty potion bottles she had found in the storerooms of the keep. Harvesting some of the spider venom to use on her arrows might be useful.

"I'd rather not call you Wood Elf," Ralof insisted, not allowing the elf's cold manner to put him off. "I don't think that you'd appreciate that either."

"Bosmer would be preferable," Tralana said, carefully corking her first bottle of venom, and moving on to the next spider; "Though we call ourselves People of the Tree-Sap."

"I'm perfectly willing to give you my own name in return," Ralof offered. He wanted to gain the elf's trust, persuade her to possibly back the Stormcloaks. "Ralof, of Riverwood. My village isn't far from here. Once we get out, we can visit my sister, Gerdur. She runs the mill in Riverwood. I'm sure she'd help you out."

"What makes you think – ?" Tralana's face suddenly froze as she looked at Ralof, but not because of him. Because of the strange, spluttering, clicking noise she had just heard coming from the spider she was sat in front of. Her head whipped round, and she saw the spider's buckled legs struggling to correct themselves, and its black fangs suddenly flashed in the rivers of venom that were flowing down its many-eyed face.

Before Tralana could react, she was suddenly hit by a force that sent her flying almost halfway across the cave, and she skidded to painful halt on the dirt. Hissing through her teeth, Tralana sat up, and brushed the dirt from her arms, then looked, angrily across at Ralof. The Nord was stood, panting with his axe dripping with venom next to the now completely dead spider, its eyes burst and bashed in, and even missing half of one of its legs. Tralana blinked. Ralof had shoved her out of the way.

"Perhaps you should have aimed a little more carefully at that spider's head?" Ralof suggested, scooping up Tralana's satchel with one hand, and presenting it to her.

Tralana opened and closed her mouth several times, struggling to find words, then finally snatched the satchel from Ralof, and stalked, silently on down through the cave.

The two of them made their way through more dark tunnels (thankfully encountering no more Frostbite Spiders,) until at last, the dazzling light of day flooded in to meet them through a large cleft in the cave wall.

"That looks like the way out!" Ralof said, and Tralana heard him breaking in to a jog behind her. "I knew we'd make it!..._GAH!"_

Tralana spun round, her hand on her dagger, but saw nothing except Ralof collapsed on the ground, clutching his leg in what looked like severe pain.

"What?" Tralana said, marching over to him and kneeling down. "What is it?" She reached out a hand to examine his leg, but then froze when she saw the two large, bloody gashes in his flesh. They oozed traces of that sickly greenish venom, and Tralana knew at once that the spider had bitten him.

"And to think," Ralof said through gritted teeth; "I was worried about catching a case of Ataxia from a Skeever nest!"

Tralana stared, dumbstruck at the wound for a few more seconds, her mind frantic with panic; then cursed silently as she realised what that feeling of panic and guilt was compelling her to do. To shepherd her along with him while he and his comrades escaped from the Imperials and a dragon attack was something she could walk away from, something she could say that they had both mutually benefitted from, and they therefore owed each other nothing. But to suffer injury in protecting her from a spider bite was something entirely different. Tralana was dismissive and often unfriendly to people, but she was not, in the end, ungrateful.

"Hold on to my sash," she said, guiding Ralof's other hand to brace itself against the cave wall, and heaving him to his feet. "Where did you say your sister lived?"

"Riverwood, just up the road," Ralof said, gingerly testing his weight on his wounded leg to see how steadily he could walk. "I take it you're coming with me then?"

The Bosmer put her hand to the Stormcloak's back, and firmly but carefully ushered him forward. As they approached the exit to the cave, Ralof heard the elf begrudgingly mutter something to him;

"Tralana."

Ralof turned his head, and looked at her in surprise.

"What did you say?"

"My name's Tralana," the Bosmer said, giving him a look that was half angry, half embarrassed. "Now shut up and walk."


	4. Riverwood

**Riverwood**

"Wait!"

Tralana dropped like a stone at Ralof's command, and the two of them sheltered behind a large boulder, as the all too familiar sound of gigantic wing-beats seemed to shake the sky itself above them. The sight of the black dragon soaring overhead (though thankfully not as horrifyingly close as it had been before,) sent a sickening jolt through Tralana's entire body. It disgusted her. Not the creature itself, though she stared, hatefully after it as it glided away in to the distant mountain range, remembering the destruction it had caused – No, it was the sensation that she felt within herself. Writhing, intense fear. That beast, that _monster, _had made her afraid in a way she had sworn she would never be again. That glorious morning, she had been content to die, to end her suffering, and the dragon had stolen that away from her, making her run in fear for her life, and allowing her to live while others had burned and perished. Why _them? _Why _them _instead of _her..?_

"There he goes," Ralof said, struggling up while trying to avoid leaning too heavily on his injured leg. "Looks like he's gone for good this time."

"And good riddance," Tralana muttered under her breath, as the final shadow of the black dragon disappeared among the clouds. She hoped she never saw that malevolent beast or its kind ever again…

Offering Ralof her arm, Tralana eased the two of them down the short, pebbled slope that fell, steeply away from the entrance of the cave, and down on to the dirt forest path she found to be mercifully nearby (Ralof was in no condition to hike over rough terrain.) As they made it on to the path, Ralof glanced back up at the cave entrance, and further up the rocky cliff to where distant columns of grey smoke indicated the location of Helgen.

"No way to know if anyone else made it out alive," he said, severely, as he hobbled along beside Tralana, doing his best to walk independently, but still needing to grab occasionally at the elf's arm to steady himself. "But, this place is going to be swarming with Imperials soon enough. We'd better clear out of here."

"You said your village wasn't very far," Tralana said, walking a few steps ahead of Ralof up the path, and peering in to the distance. "Isn't staying close a little dangerous? There could be Imperials stationed in Riverwood?"

"Not likely," Ralof said, leaning on his companion's shoulder for a second, and painfully attempting to stretch his stiff knee. "We'll be crossing the border in to Whiterun Hold. Neutral ground. It still isn't Stormcloak territory, but it isn't crawling with Imperials either, so if we're ahead of the news from Helgen, we should be fine. As long as we don't do anything stupid."

As they shuffled their way down the long forest path under the brilliant blue sky, Tralana observed with appreciation that the country she'd unknowingly entered was a breathtakingly beautiful one (It's beauty could not rival Valenwood, of course, but it was still beautiful, nevertheless.) Pine forests stretched for miles over soaring, misted blue mountains crowned with snow, that looked like stormy great waves reaching up to the heavens. Delicate mountain flowers in pale blues, purples and yellows sported small swarms of large, jewel-bright butterflies, and as Tralana peered between the trees, she could even make out dashing, white-tailed rabbits among the tall grass, and a magnificent elk and his mate stood, picturesquely in a small clearing not far from the path. Even the howling of distant wolf packs added to the beauty of the place, acting almost as a kind of wild music that seemed to communicate the spirit of Skyrim.

As they came to the end of the forest path, and crossed on to the intersecting, stone flagged road, with a signpost nearby indicating the direction of Riverwood, they found themselves walking above a fierce, rapidly flowing river, with white waterfalls that Tralana could see visibly jumped with salmon. The water fell in gradual stages, first roaring down in a dense, pure white mist, then rushing over round boulders, smoothed by the flow of the water, where the salmon played, and lastly gushing in a pleasant, fast flowing step, almost like a decorative fountain, and continuing on in its swift, straight line of scintillating, purest blue. Ralof gestured up to the great mountain that now loomed, imposingly above them, indicating the tall and eerie black ruins that stood out almost like dark, slender, hooded figures in the mountain mist.

"See that ruin up there?" Ralof said, quietly. "Bleak Falls Barrow. Don't know how my sister can stand living in the shadow of that place." He gave the ruin a cold look, before turning away from it with a visibly repressed shudder. "I guess you get used to it." Though gods knew, Ralof had certainly never been able to get used to it, despite Riverwood and all its pleasant charms.

Finally, the road broadened out until there was nothing but the water on one side of it and the mere edge of the forest on the other, where the oldest trees lay in a kind of woodland graveyard of massive, mushroom and ivy covered stumps, and Tralana saw the wide, thatched entrance of Riverwood in front of them. The village had only one stretch of wall at its front, and not really a gate of any kind – Only a large inn, a cluster of houses that nestled in the small gorge between the mountains that Riverwood was situated in, and, dominating either bank of the small strip of river that ran through the pretty settlement, the blacksmith forge and the mill, with its large waterwheel turning and kicking up the glistening water. No one reacted to the presence of the two mangled looking newcomers in Stormcloak cuirasses, and all the townspeople seemed peacefully and busily at work at their various trades. Ralof breathed a sigh of relief.

"Looks like nobody here knows what's happened yet," he muttered to Tralana, doing his best to hide his limp. "Come on. Gerdur's probably working in her lumber mill."

He led Tralana across the small wooden walkway that crossed the river, and in to a large, fenced in yard behind the thatched house next to the mill. There, a tall, fair-haired woman with a weather-beaten face was hammering at a workbench. Ralof's face fairly lit up when he saw her.

"Gerdur!"

The woman turned in surprise at the sound of his voice, almost dropping her hammer.

"Brother!" she cried, happily, rushing across the yard towards Tralana and Ralof. "Mara's mercy, it's good to see you!" After embracing her brother, however, a serious cast came to her face, and she looked, questioningly at Ralof with alert, sapphire eyes.

"But is it safe for you to be here?" she said, her gaze falling on the blood on Ralof's cuirass. "We heard that Ulfric had been captured…"

"Gerdur…" Ralof tried to interject, but his sister carried on, hurriedly.

"…And that the Imperials might have been taking him to Cyrodiil to parade in front of the Emperor. Are you hurt?" She looked him up and down, and Ralof made an obvious effort to hide his wounded leg, but she spotted it, and her face turned white as bone.

"What's happened?" she cried in horror, trying to bend down to look at the injury, but Ralof stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, and shook his head.

"Gerdur, I'm fine," he lied through gritted teeth. "It's nothing. Probably wouldn't have made it out alive, if not for…" He nodded towards Tralana, who Gerdur seemed to notice for the first time, and the Nord woman's eyes became visibly wider with surprise at the sight of the Bosmer.

"Who's this?" she blinked, not letting up in her staring. "One of your comrades?"

"Not a comrade yet," Ralof said, looking at Tralana, hopefully; "But a friend. I owe her my life, in fact."

The tips of Tralana's long, pointed ears rose even higher than they already were, and she slowly turned to look at Ralof. _Him _owe _her _his life? Hadn't he been the one to shove her away from the fangs of a Frostbite Spider?

"Is there somewhere we can talk?" Ralof said, leaning in to speak more quietly to his sister. "There's no telling when the news from Helgen will reach the Imperials."

"Helgen?" Gerdur said with a frown. "Has something happened..?" Shaking her head, she looked back across the yard, then over at a quiet spot close to the water's edge. "You're right. Come with me."

Leading them over to a large stump that stood at the corner of the river's bank, overlooking a long, narrow waterfall that fell down the side of the mountain, Gerdur turned and called up to the distant figure that was hauling logs at the lumber mill;

"Hod! Come here a minute! I need your help with something!"

"What is it, woman? Sven drunk on the job again?"

"Hod, just come here!" Gerdur said, testily, as Tralana placed a hand under Ralof's elbow to help ease him down on to the tree stump. Stretching his leg out in front of him with a grunt, Ralof took a deep breath to try and ease his pain, and patted the familiar old stump beneath him with a smile. The figure over on the lumber mill seemed to be squinting at them, and suddenly stood bolt upright.

"Wh…Ralof! What are you doing here? I'll be right down!"

As the figure began to run down the lumber mill steps and up the wooden walkway to meet them, the backdoor of the house suddenly crashed open, and an eager-faced, fair-haired boy of around nine or ten came rushing out, a huge, unruly grey hound in tow.

"Uncle Ralof!" the boy cried with delight, as he sprinted towards the tree stump. "Can I see your axe? How many Imperials have you killed? Do you really know Ulfric Stormcloak..?"

"Hush, Frodnar!" Gerdur said, sternly, keeping herself between Ralof and the boy, obviously not wanting him to see the wound on Ralof's leg, which Tralana noticed was worryingly starting to ooze what looked like green blood instead of red. "This is no time for your games. Go and watch the south road. Come find us if you see any Imperial soldiers coming."

The child looked crest-fallen.

"Aw, mama. I wanna stay and talk with Uncle Ralof!"

Over on the stump, Ralof peered out from behind Gerdur, and smiled, mischievously at the boy.

"Look at you!" he enthused. "Almost a grown man! Won't be long before you'll be joining the fight yourself."

A grin instantly lit up Frodnar's face, and he ran with determination towards the road, whistling for the dog to follow him.

"That's right!" he called back, proudly. "Don't worry, Uncle Ralof, I won't let those soldiers sneak up on you!"

Tralana, balanced, gargoyle-like on her toes in a sitting position behind Ralof on the tree stump, looked at the Nord's affectionately beaming face, and felt a small, reluctant smile tug at the corner of her mouth. Though she generally found it unwise to judge people by the faces they presented even to their families, Ralof did seem to radiate a sincere attitude of warmth.

Across the yard, the tall, burly figure of a Nord with long, thick, fair-hair and a great beard came jogging towards them.

"Now, Ralof," Hod said, severely, taking in the sight of his injured brother-in-law and his elf companion where they sat, dishevelled and caked in blood on the tree stump; "What's going on?" You two look pretty well done in."

Ralof sighed, lifting his head to the sun, and telling himself that yes, he _was _back in Riverwood once more, back in the sweet, remote peace of the waterside village, with his family gathered round him. The nightmare of Helgen seemed very, very far away.

"I can't remember when I last slept…"

As he explained the events of the past two days – the ambush at Darkwater Crossing, the journey to Helgen and the headsman's block, the sudden and inexplicable appearance of the dragon, and the destruction of Helgen and their escape through the keep – Gerdur's face grew more and more anxious and angry, while Hod appeared disbelieving.

"Ralof," he kept interrupting. "When you say 'dragon,' you don't mean a real, live..?"

"As strange as it sounds," Ralof said, gently clutching at his injured leg, "we'd be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion, we managed to slip away. But are we _really _the first to make it to Riverwood?" he said, looking at Gerdur. "Did anyone else escape? Did Ulfric..?"

"Nobody else has come up the south road today, as far as I know," Gerdur said, gravely. "But don't worry, I'm sure Jarl Ulfric will have made it out. It will take more than a dragon to stop Ulfric Stormcloak! Now, about your leg…"

"Gerdur, I keep telling you, it's nothing!" Ralof insisted, trying to draw his leg back, but wincing in pain.

"It's not," Tralana said, seriously, looking at the wound. "Valenwood is full of venomous creatures like that. I know a bad bite when I see one."

"Ralof, this is terrible!" Hod said, crouching down and parting the tears in Ralof's cuirass to get a look at the injury. "We can't possibly patch this up on our own, you need to visit the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun…"

"I can't!" Ralof barked, brushing away his brother-in-law's hands. "I need to see if anyone else makes it back from Helgen. There might be word of Jarl Ulfric."

"_I'll _worry about that," Gerdur said, firmly. "You're no good to the Stormcloak's with only one leg, brother. You didn't let a dragon take you, so don't let a Frostbite Spider!"

Ralof glowered down at his leg, hatefully, but he finally seemed to bend to his sister's will.

"Well, I certainly can't make the journey on foot…"

"Or alone, for that matter," Gerdur said. "You've been gone for months, brother, the Whiterun Hold is different now. Bandits have been infesting the wilds since the war broke out. You'll need someone to go with you."

Tralana's stomach dropped, and she suppressed a groan. Oh, no…

"Hod and I can't leave the mill for that long, or we'll be missed, and I'm not sure I trust anyone else in town to take you there." Gerdur looked over at the elf perched, silently on the edge of the stump, contemplating the wood shavings that were scattered on the grass. "Perhaps your friend could take you?"

Tralana almost shut her eyes in despair. She'd thought she would be able to go on her way once Ralof was safely in the hands of his family, go off to…She didn't know where she wanted to go. Home was impossible at the moment. Anywhere. Just _anywhere _but here, surrounded by these people who were full of life and purpose, and by these dead trees. She just wanted to be alone. But as she looked at Ralof's expectant face, and down at the wound which seemed to be looking uglier by the minute, she knew that her debt to the Stormcloak for throwing himself before the Frostbite Spider was still not paid.

"I'll go," she said, shortly.

Ralof smiled, gratefully at her.

"Thank you, Tralana," he said.

* * *

"Are there horses in Valenwood?"

"Not many."

"Are there houses in Valenwood?"

"Yes."

"Houses like our houses?"

"No."

"Do the Wood Elves have wars with each other, like the Stormcloaks and the Imperials?"

"Yes."

"Is it true that you _eat _people?"

"Frodnar, that's enough!" Hod barked from the corner of the room, where he was busily packing Ralof and Tralana's bag for the journey to Whiterun. "I thought your mother told you to watch the south road?"

"It's okay, papa, I've got Stump standing on guard," Frodnar said, enthusiastically. "He can smell Imperials from a mile away, he really can, I taught him how…"

"Frodnar."

The boy looked, pleadingly at his father's stern face for a moment, before bowing his head in resignation.

"Yes, papa."

As the boy exited the house, Gerdur appeared in the doorway, briefly shooting an intense glance at the Bosmer sat at the table, devouring a venison chop, before turning to her husband.

"Hod, is everything ready?"

"Just about," Hod said, flinging the bag over his shoulder. "There should be enough healing potions and bandages to keep infection at bay before they reach Whiterun. I even managed to persuade a batch of fire salts from Alvor, a pinch of that should help slow down the blood freezing."

"Good," Gerdur said, stepping inside the house. "Go out and give the bag to Ralof, would you, I've already brought Allie round to the front…"

Tralana could tell that the Nord was trying to get her husband out of the room so that she could speak with Tralana alone, and Hod seemed to sense it too. He nodded, unquestioningly, his eyes only briefly flickering to the Bosmer, and then exited the house with the bag.

There were a few, long seconds of silence, and Gerdur approached the fireplace, and prodded at the logs with an iron poker, though they were still burning, heartily. Tralana slowly chewed the piece of venison in her mouth, waiting for Gerdur to speak.

"I see you found some new clothes," Gerdur said eventually, indicating the old green dress and brown jerkin Tralana had selected from a chest on Gerdur's invitation.

Tralana didn't say a word, only looked at Gerdur and waited for her to get to the real topic she wanted to discuss. Gerdur held Tralana's glassy, dark eyes for a moment, before sighing, and putting the iron poker back in its place.

"Elf," she began, seriously, turning to Tralana with her hands clasped in front of her; "If what you and Ralof saw in Helgen is true, then we need help. Someone needs to inform Jarl Balgruuf up in Whiterun if there's a dragon on the loose so that he can send down as many troops as he can. Riverwood is defenceless!"

Tralana regarded the woman's desperate face for a second, then swallowed her piece of venison, and nodded. A hard frown crossed Gerdur's forehead for a moment, but it softened as she seemed to scold some thought in her head, and went on;

"I know what you believe we must think of you. I know that in many cases, you'd be right to believe that Nords thought such a way. But any friend of Ralof's is a friend of mine."

She sat herself down at the table beside Tralana, and it seemed like she was about to take the elf's hand for a moment, but she decided against it.

"I've entrusted you with the safety of Riverwood, and with my brother. Man or elf, I wouldn't give that to someone who I didn't think worthy and capable. If you send word to the Jarl, I'll be in your debt. Bring Ralof home safely, and there's nothing I wouldn't do to help you, my friend."

Part of Tralana felt resentful that she was still being loaded with responsibilities and promises that needed keeping, things she could not walk away from until her conscience allowed her to, no matter how much she wanted to or tried. But another part of her – a part which she thought had long been buried or scrubbed away – was touched by the Nord's faith in her. There was real kindness in Gerdur's eyes, something which she had not seen for a long time, and it seemed to just start to bring her round to the idea that these people were just good-hearted, grateful, and in need of help. Troublesome to spend any length of time around, certainly. But not treacherous or deceiving.

"I'll bring him back to Riverwood in one piece," Tralana said, solemnly. "I swear it."

* * *

"We should reach Whiterun by sundown," Ralof said, shifting in the saddle as he and Tralana began to make their way over the bridge that led out of Riverwood. "We can take shelter in the Temple, and speak with Jarl Balgruuf in the morning. Danica Pure-Spring is the best healer in the Whiterun Hold. She should be able to take care of _this." _He cast another, scornful look down at his now bandaged leg.

Tralana looked up at the Stormcloak, now dressed in a set of work clothes Hod had given him (his Stormcloak cuirass would have been far too obvious,) as she patted the head of Gerdur and Hod's handsome, stout black mare, Queen Alfsigr ("We call her Allie for short," Hod had told her,) who she led by the reins up the stone flagged road.

"You know," Tralana began, rather awkwardly; "You needn't have bothered."

Ralof looked down at her, curiously.

"Needn't have bothered with what?" he asked.

"With pushing me out of the way of that spider," Tralana said, a peculiar light dancing behind her eyes. Ralof looked completely taken aback.

"You're saying you would have preferred I let it kill you?" he said, almost angrily, not least so because the Bosmer had what looked like an amused expression on her face. "Or at least land you in the same state it's landed me?"

"It wouldn't have," Tralana told him, her face now breaking in to an indescribably wicked, toothy grin. "My people haven't survived for centuries in the forests of Valenwood just by pure luck. My body is much more resistant to poisons than your own."

A slow look of realisation crept on to Ralof's face, quickly followed by outrage.

"So if I'd let that spider bite you..?"

"I'd probably be in a better state than you are now."

Ralof's face seemed to shift through several different expressions, from embarrassment, to fury, to despair, to annoyance, before he finally blew out his cheeks with a disgruntled sound, and looked, resolutely off in to the distance.

"Damn elves!"


	5. The Centre of Skyrim

**The Centre of Skyrim**

Tralana smoothly pulled her dagger from the wolf's throat, wiped the scarlet from her silver and black blade on the grass, and then made her way back to Ralof, who was doing his best to calm a spooked Allie.

"Nicely done," the Nord nodded to Tralana. "Though I would have struck a little faster if I were you. Wolves are swift creatures. No point in hanging back, waiting for them to make the first move."

"I wasn't hanging back," Tralana said a little tersely, as she re-sheathed her dagger, its jetty, serrated blade gleaming with a strange, bluish sheen. She frowned, deeply to herself as she approached the startled black mare, who was dancing, anxiously on the road while Ralof attempted to pet and soothe her. This was the second time that Tralana's Animal Commands had failed her (though she had admittedly only tried to use them on the wolves.) No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't seem to break through in to the minds of the creatures, and she was beginning to wonder if the animals in this strange, non-elvish land were somehow disconnected from Y'ffre, and therefore would not recognise her as their ally.

"Whoa, there!" Ralof said, earnestly, still pulling at the reins and trying to steady Allie. "Easy girl, it's alright!"

Tralana softly placed her hands on the frightened horse's velvet muzzle, and instantly felt the hot, jittery energy of panic come over her like a red cloud. It was easy when an animal was this unsettled to let its fear seep over you and become your own, but Tralana kept her energy a vivid, soothing green in her mind's eye, so that she could easily distinguish herself from Allie, and let the wild call that activated the Command ring out in her head, telling the animal not to be afraid. In an instant, Allie stopped and stood, calmly on the roadway. A hint of greenish gold flickered in the mare's large, brown eyes. Hmmm…Perhaps it _was _just the wolves then?

"Well, well," Ralof looked down at the now tame horse with a slightly raised eyebrow. "That's a forest trick, I take it?"

"A gift from Y'ffre," Tralana corrected him, sharply. "The Storyteller taught us many things when we agreed not to harm His sacred forests, including how to tame wild beasts."

"All except _those _beasts," Ralof said, watching the dead wolves that were gradually bleeding out on the road as they passed them. "But then you're more than capable of handling yourself in the face of a dragon, let alone a few fierce wolves. Talos would guide your hand well in battle."

"Talos?"

They were coming to the edge of the trees now, and a vast, sloping plain of rock and scrubland could be glimpsed between the thick boughs, dim yellow against the burnt orange sky, but scattered with dots of pure colour from beautifully blooming wild flowers.

"Talos, the Warrior God," Ralof said, passionately. "Once known as Tiber Septim, and the only mortal ever to ascend to the seat of godhood."

Tralana looked back at Ralof with a dramatically arched eyebrow, and a questioning light in her eyes. But before she could say anything, a flood of vivid, early evening sunlight poured over the travellers, and Tralana looked up the slope of fertile grassland, drawing in her breath at what she saw. At the crest of the broad, gentle hill, in the centre of a widespread cluster of guard towers and small, scattered farms, a tall, many windowed castle stood black against the reddening sky, its form rising so distinctly from the relative bleakness of its surroundings that it absolutely dominated the landscape, a true symbol of Nordic power and triumph.

"Forget what they tell you about that Imperial built city in the north-west," Ralof said, smirking a little at the elf's expression, and proudly admiring the skyline of Whiterun. "_This _is the centre of Skyrim, in location, in trade, and in spirit. That palace up there is Dragonsreach, the Jarl's seat."

"Dragonsreach," Tralana said a little disdainfully, as she took Allie by the head, and began to lead her and Ralof up the hill, headfirst in to the setting sun. "Not a name I feel I'm going to take to."

"Oh, it has its history," said Ralof, gulping down another healing potion from the prepared bag, and brushing a hand across his yellow bristles to catch the few pink drops that escaped down his chin. "Believe me, there's isn't a palace in Skyrim that has earned its name as deservingly as Dragonsreach has. Here, leave Allie at the stables. We need to pass through the city gates."

Tralana did her best to help the Nord (who was almost twice her bulk,) as he painfully dismounted from his horse, and assisted him up to Whiterun's massive, wooden gates, but the two of them were suddenly accosted by a guard in a yellow-draped cuirass, bearing a shield with the emblem of a horse's head. Beady, suspicious eyes peered out from two eyeslits in the large, oval helmet.

"Halt!" a gravelly voice with the typical Skyrim accent command from behind a face of iron. "City's closed with the dragons about. Official business only."

"We have news about the dragon attacks," Tralana said, looking, irritably at the guard.

"And Riverwood calls for the Jarl's aid," Ralof pleaded. "We're defenceless without a proper wall and reinforcements."

Another guard, looking like the twin of the first in his identical cuirass and similarly concealed face, walked up, and noticed Ralof's leg.

"Nasty injury," he commented. "I had something like that myself once. Took a poisoned arrow to the knee during the Forsworn Uprising when I was stationed in Markarth. Bloody agony." He turned to look at his companion. "Best let them in, Orvar. The Jarl will want to know if they've got news about Helgen."

There was a slight, metallic grumble, and the first guard backed down from his fighting stance.

"Fine. But we'll be keeping an eye on you. Stay out of trouble, elf."

And the massive, iron fitted gates were drawn back, allowing them entrance to the city.

* * *

Tralana could immediately see why Ralof had referred to Whiterun as the true centre of Skyrim. The city positively buzzed with trade, even now in the few remaining hours before dusk, with a blacksmith forge smouldering and smoking near the gates, and the main hub of the city seeming to be the market square, where venders were busily trying to sell off the last of the goods on their stalls, while other businesses around them – an inn, an apothecary, and other typical stores – lit the torches outside their doorways in preparation for the coming darkness.

"The Temple of Kynareth is in the Wind District," Ralof shivered, now starting to look noticeably pale from his wound. "Up there, just under Dragonsreach."

Tralana hurriedly led him up the stone steps, and beneath the canopy of a large, sprawling tree that grew in the centre of the Wind District (the second tier of the towering Whiterun city.) Dragonsreach rose up to the clouds before them, surrounded by a mote that shone, blackly beneath the intense torchlight, and at the base of its endless steps, a stone statue of a great Nord warrior stood, crushing the neck of what looked like a stone dragon beneath him, a winged helmet on his head and a long greatsword held in his grasp. At the foot of the statue, a robed Nord priest was holding his arms aloft, his face turned to the heavens, and booming something across the circle of the Wind District in lofty, frantic tones, as though he were reciting a great tale;

"…And _there _it is, friends! The ugly truth! We are the Children of Man. Talos is the true _God _of Man! Ascended from flesh, to rule the realm of spirit..!"

"What's he screaming about?" Tralana said, looking over at the seemingly insane priest.

Ralof shot her a disapproving look.

"If you'd care to listen, he's preaching the truth of Talos!" he said. "True sons of Skyrim won't quietly turn their backs on our greatest hero and the patron of our land! It's good to see that there are others willing to shout their love for Talos, no matter if the Imperials or the Thalmor hear it."

Tralana, however, was now much more interested in the great tree that grew in the middle of the Wind District. Its bark had the most beautiful, lustrous sheen, a strange colour that could be said to be either gold or silver, but its wide-reaching branches, Tralana saw, were skeleton bare. Tralana placed her hand on the broad, smooth trunk, but felt barely a thing stirring beneath the surface. There was no hum of life. The tree was sleeping.

"If you're getting homesick, there are plenty of trees outside the city walls that you can 'commune' with later," Ralof grumbled, leaning against the elaborately carved door of the Temple of Kynareth that stood nearby. "But right now, I'd quite like to get this poison flushed out of my leg before I lose it, if you don't mind?"

* * *

Ralof lay back on the cool, marble bed, watching the soothing ripples of the candlelight as it bounced off the surface of the shallow pond in the centre of the Temple, and danced across the ceiling. The sweet, mellow smell of lavender and mountain flower incense hung, heavily in the air, creating a haze that was almost dream-like, and the calm shadows of the Temple were broken only briefly from time to time as Danica Pure-Spring, the Priestess of Kynareth, made her way around the marble beds that surrounded the Temple waters, casting her healing hands spell on the sick or injured souls who occupied them. Ralof had already had his injury tended to, and the warm yellow mountain flower paste that Danica had applied to the wound after cleansing it was already starting to do its job. He could feel his shin again, and the skin surrounding the wound was starting to look less black.

Turning his head on the (he had to admit, rather uncomfortable,) marble bed, Ralof observed Danica tending to a sick farm woman who kept complaining of her fever. Danica was a kind woman, always had been (her mother's family had come from Riverwood, and Ralof had sometimes seen her visit when he was a boy, though she had pledged herself to Kynareth when she was still quite young, just seventeen,) and Ralof had been lucky that she was also non-judgemental and completely neutral when it came to the war. She was, as she herself often said, a servant of Kynareth, and would heal anyone who came through her doors.

Despite Danica's accepting nature, however, Ralof could not help but notice that she was for some reason regarding Tralana with rather cold and sometimes even horrified eyes. The two women stood on the other side of the Temple, the Bosmer leaning against the wall, and Danica looking back at her from where she stood over the bed of the sick farm woman, a visibly dark expression peering out from beneath her yellow hood. Eventually, the priestess departed from her charge with a smile and a word of comfort, and then turned fully to face Tralana, with a rather stern hand on her hip. Ralof saw Tralana coolly staring back at the priestess with those damnably dark, inscrutable eyes of hers, and wished that he could hear what the two of them were saying to each other; but as he looked, he saw Danica gesturing to Tralana's magnificent bow and dagger, which were still on her person, and Tralana cast a flickering but defensive look to her weapons. Apparently, Danica seemed to have some sort of objection to them. Ralof was puzzled. Peaceful healer though she may have been, he knew that Danica was not against the wearing of weapons in the Temple (she herself wore an iron dagger at her belt,) as it was not especially wise for anyone to go unarmed in Skyrim. What possible problem could she have with Tralana wearing her own?

Turning from the Bosmer with a shake of her head, Danica started to make her way around the many small flower and herb gardens that lined the edge of the Temple, harvesting a few sprigs in to a glazed bowl, and then made her way back across to Ralof, with Tralana somewhat begrudgingly following behind her.

"…I only allow it because you aided someone who was in need to my door," Ralof heard Danica saying as they approached. "But I'm sorry, my child, I can't permit them to stay any longer than tonight. I won't have such filthy objects in Kynareth's Temple."

Assuming her usual soft and gentle cast of face, Danica then set her bowl of herbs down next to Ralof, as she began harvesting the garden closest to him.

"How goes it, Ralof?" she asked in her sweet voice. "Has the pain eased at all?"

"Very much, yes," Ralof replied, casting another look down at his leg. "I can't thank you enough, Danica, for what you've done for me and my – " he cast a quick, cautious look around the Temple to make sure no one was listening – "for me and my comrades. I've had several of them tell me of the potions and balms you send them."

"I send potions and balms to the Imperials too, Ralof," Danica said, pointedly. "This war of yours has sent too many injured to the Temple already. My oath is to Kynareth, not to the Stormcloaks."

Usually, Ralof would have argued that the cause of the Stormcloaks was the cause of all Nords, but he knew Danica better than to say that. Her loyalty lay only with her goddess, and he understood, just as his lay with Talos. And with Ulfric, of course.

"This new strain on my duties hasn't been easy to adapt to," Danica continued, peering closely at the golden paste that covered Ralof's wound, checking to see if it needed reapplying. "I've had to completely abandon my attempts to heal the Gildergreen, and so far, no alchemist, mage, priest or priestess alike has been able to trace the problem for me."

"The Gildergreen?" Tralana asked, curiously. "Is that the slumbering tree outside, surrounded by the stream?"

Danica looked up at the elf, and her face actually wore a smile.

"Slumbering," she repeated. "A far more sensitive word than dead, I suppose. Yes, that's the Gildergreen. A sapling cut from the Eldergleam Tree itself, the oldest living thing in Skyrim. Disciples of Kynareth could sense something holy in it, and used to come from all over the holds to hear the winds of the goddess in its branches. The tree has been here since the early days of Whiterun – Some say it brought blessings to the city. It's sad to see it wither."

"Why the people of Whiterun put so much stock in a tree, I'll never know," Ralof muttered under his breath, but the sharp ears of his elf companion heard him.

"There _was _something sacred within it," she said to Danica, shooting a stern glance at Ralof. "I could feel it. Does the water flowing in to the Temple come through the roots of the tree?"

"Yes, we've always used it to mix potions with. Speaking of which, Ralof, I'm going to brew you something to take in the morning. A bite from a Frostbite Spider is a serious thing, and you'll feel drained of your strength for a day or two. A mixture of purple mountain flower and honeycomb should help with that." Picking up her herb bowl, Danica took one last look at Tralana, and intoned, darkly, "Remember what I said, child," before heading to her private chambers, and closing the door behind her.

"What did you say to _her?" _Ralof asked with raised eyebrows, as Tralana took off her bow and dagger, and laid them carefully beneath a table, before sitting herself down on the floor next to Ralof's bed.

"Nothing at all," the Bosmer said, dismissively.

"Yes, that's probably what infuriated her so much. She didn't look happy with that bow and dagger of yours. Called them filthy, or so I heard. What's so special about them?"

Tralana busied herself with apparently trying to find a comfortable patch of floor, steadfastly ignoring Ralof's question. Casting a look at the peculiar, darkly gleaming weapons beneath the nearby table, Ralof shifted slightly on his bed, and slyly reached out an arm while the elf's head was turned. His fingers brushed the belt of the scabbard that held the dagger, but as he dragged it across the marble slabbed floor, it unfortunately made a distinct clattering noise, and Tralana turned, and lunged for the blade. Her reflexes were lightning fast, but Ralof managed to grab the hilt of the dagger while Tralana only grabbed the scabbard, unsheathing it in a menacing ripple of curious, blue light. This was the closest Ralof had gotten to the beautiful yet also somehow unpleasant looking thing, and as he held it in his hand, a cold feeling suddenly washed over him as he recognised the unspeakable power that lay within that blade, the dark forces that had forged it, and the damage that it could do to both its victim and to the one that wielded it...

Tralana snatched back the dagger, and hastily shoved it back in to its sheath, thrusting it under the table with its companion bow, and glaring, fiercely at Ralof, as though daring him to say out loud what he had so obviously gleaned about Tralana's weapons.

"That's a _Daedric _blade!" Ralof hissed, accepting the challenge in the elf's eyes. "And the bow too?"

"Don't touch them," Tralana said, darkly.

There was a long, heavy moment of silence, while Tralana once again pretended to be hunting for a comfortable spot on the floor, though this time much more aggressively.

"Where did you get them?"

The Bosmer snapped round to look at Ralof, her lips pursed and drained of colour, so that they turned an ugly yellow.

"Does it matter?"

"It…It just doesn't make sense to me," Ralof said, his tone still insistent, but not overly confrontational. He still wanted to get on the elf's good side. "Daedric weapons are rare enough, and from what I know about Wood El…about Bosmer, they wouldn't exactly have the skill to craft them. And before you accuse me of being an ignorant Nord," he added at the look on Tralana's face, "the elves of Valenwood are different to the Dark Elves or the Altmer. There's no grand magical tradition, no necromancy, no fancy enchantments on fancy moonstone armour and fancy mage robes. So how can someone like you have a Daedric bow and dagger?"

Tralana stared, unblinkingly.

Ralof wanted to punch her.

"Do you know where _I _think you're more likely to find Daedric weapons?" he pressed, now not caring about the tone of his voice, because by Oblivion, this elf wasn't being honest, and when elves lied, it usually meant throats would be slit in the middle of the night. "More likely than Valenwood, anyway? Morrowind."

A flicker of horror passed over the Bosmer's unflinching face, and she pressed her back, firmly to Ralof's bed, refusing to look at him. Ralof did not like this. He did not like this at all.

"You were in Eastmarch when the Imperials picked you up," he went on. "You could have come over the Velothi Mountains from Blacklight or somewhere like that. What on Nirn would a Wood Elf want in Morrowind?"

There was a loaded pause. Then, Tralana turned to Ralof with a slightly twisted smile.

"Mind if _I _do a little interrogating now?" she asked, in a sarcastically sweet and simpering voice.

Ralof suppressed an angry groan, and instead let out a heavy sigh, lying back on his marble bed, and staring at the ceiling. There _was _one other thing he could have brought up, something which he was sure would get some kind of telling reaction from the stubborn elf, but for some reason, the thought of saying it made his tongue tie in awkward knots. Something told him that she had not wanted him to notice what he had noticed, and he certainly wasn't going to run the risk of making a Bosmer with a Daedric dagger angry…

"Well, then?" he said, turning his head to look at the elf. "What do you want to know of me?"

"You knew that soldier at Helgen, didn't you?" Tralana said, placing just as much gravity and pressure on her questions as Ralof had. "The one who led me to the keep."

Ralof's face fell, and he went back to looking at the ceiling.

"Yes," he muttered; "I knew him."

"How?"

"His name's Hadvar. His uncle Alvor is the blacksmith in Riverwood, has been for as long as I can remember. Hadvar grew up there, we knew each other when we were children."

Ralof kept his eyes riveted on the dancing ribbons of light on the ceiling, even though he could feel Tralana's dark and burning gaze boring in to him.

"And now he's fighting for the Imperials?" she said.

"And now he's fighting for the Imperials," Ralof echoed.

An awkward tension hung in the air between them for a few moments, but was suddenly broken by Tralana giving a rather surprised sounding sniff.

"Odd," she said, thoughtfully.

"War always divides people," Ralof said, gravely, once again reminding himself of the sacrifices he knew he would have to make when he first joined the Stormcloaks.

"Yes, but not clans."

Ralof frowned, and made a small sideways glance at the Bosmer, who had apparently finally settled on a space on the floor, and was looking up at him with either sympathy or baffled amusement, he wasn't sure which.

"In Valenwood," Tralana explained, "tribes and families are law. Brothers don't turn against brothers, we always have to remain together. Otherwise, we become weak."

Ralof looked in to the elf's eerily reflective eyes for a moment, before once again contemplating the shimmering lights of the candles on the water that illuminated the ceiling. Their movement stirred his mind to thinking, and he looked down at Tralana again to say something, but found the elf lying stretched out on her front on the floor, with her face turned away from him.


	6. The Jarl of Dragonsreach

**The Jarl of Dragonsreach**

"Terrible and powerful Talos…We, Your unworthy servants, give praise! For only through _Your _grace and benevolence, may we truly reach _enlightenment!"_

Gnawing on a roasted pheasant leg and waiting for said enlightenment, Tralana sat perched on a wooden bench in the shade of the Gildergreen Tree, surrounded by purple lavender. She had decided to act on the advice of Ralof (who was still resting in the Temple,) and was listening in on the sermon of the enraged and impassioned Nord priest, Heimskr, as he continued to bellow what was apparently the great cause of the Stormcloak rebellion from beneath his Shrine of Talos. So far, it was proving entertaining.

From what Tralana had managed to gather that morning around the market stalls of Whiterun (which included a few coin purses, as well as gossip,) Heimskr was mostly just a source of annoyance in the city. But there were some who feared his loud public sermons about the forbidden God of War would bring about a Thalmor 'visitation,' now that the High Elves were on an intense hunt for any Talos worshippers in Skyrim. With the self-proclaimed Priest of Talos under the watchful protection of Clan Gray-Mane, however (one of the oldest and most influential families in Whiterun, and staunch supporters of the Stormcloaks,) there was little that could be done about him, other than steadfastly ignoring his wrathful voice as it shattered the peaceful beauty of the morning;

"And deserve our praise You do, great Talos! For we are one! Ere You ascended and the Eight became Nine, You walked among us, not as god…but as _MAN! _Such an idea, that the blood of Skyrim could conquer the very plains of Aetherius, is _inconceivable _to our…_Elven _overlords." Heimskr delivered the statement with a brutal laugh of passionate disgust. "Sharing the heavens with _us? _With man? _They can barely tolerate our presence on Nirn!"_

It was becoming clear to Tralana why the Thalmor were so determined to oppress such a religion, and why the Stormcloaks in return fought so passionately to defend it. A Ninth Divine born from men (and a legendary Nordic hero at that,) in a world where man and mer constantly duelled for supremacy, would of course have been something that the people of Skyrim would take great pride in, and which would severely wound the Thalmor's beliefs of human inferiority. Both believed they fought for the glory of the Divines, and both were ruthless and ready to die for their cause. Truly, the Thalmor and the Stormcloaks were spectacularly well-matched…

In their arrogance.

"Today, they take away your faith," Heimskr continued, his voice once again building to a sky-shaking crescendo. "But what of tomorrow? What then? Do the _elves_ take away your homes? Your businesses? Your _children?_ _Your very LIVES? _And what does the Empire do? _NOTHING! _Nay, worse than nothing! It enforces the will of the Thalmor! And so I call upon you to rise up, people of Skyrim! Rise up, Stormcloaks! I alone have been anointed by the Ninth to spread His holy word, and call on you to embrace it, for mighty Talos has seen in us – in each of us – _the future of Skyrim! _A future free of the oppression of Cyrodiil and the Summerset Isle!"

A lump suddenly formed in Tralana's throat that had nothing to do with the pheasant leg she was eating. She stared, her eyes filled with a remembered horror, as she looked across the circle at the bellowing priest, who went on with his sermon completely ignorant of the elf's troubled gaze. She had heard this message before...

Ripping the last of the salted pheasant meat with her teeth, Tralana tossed the naked bone in Heimskr's general direction, and headed, hastily towards the steps of Dragonsreach, her eyes as hard as steel. Freedom from the rule of the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, uprisings, independence, no more interference from the ways of the outside world…This was all starting to sound frighteningly familiar. And fighting for the right to worship your gods was one thing, but if Skyrim chose to throw out the Empire altogether, and stand alone after having angered the formidable machine that was the Aldmeri Dominion…Did they understand the consequences they could bring upon themselves? Consequences that Tralana knew all too much about? Ralof had said that Imperial walls and towers had once made him feel safe…If only he knew how right that feeling had been…

Tralana shook her head, viciously, as she approached the great, vaulting wooden doors of the palace. No. This wasn't her fight. It had nothing to do with her. She had no debt to this land, and the Nords could throw themselves in to a stupid civil war if they wanted to. She only wished to go her own way, to live quietly away from people and their pointless battles, where villages were burned and families slaughtered, and the enemy poured, relentlessly in with their…

The old shadows were trying to cloud Tralana's mind again. She wouldn't think of that, she told herself, not anymore. No matter how long it took, and no matter how far she had to run, she swore to herself that one day, she _would _forget. One day, she would be left in peace.

* * *

Such peace seemed a very long way off, however, as no sooner had the Bosmer crossed the palace threshold, than a brilliant, steel blade suddenly thrust itself across her path, flashing, savagely in the torchlight. It was the most beautiful piece of steel Tralana had ever seen, and she admired it with an approving nod as she looked up the leather-clad arm of the person who had almost sliced her face off. A pair of deep ruby eyes glared at her, gleaming, dark, and seemingly endless, like beautiful pools of blood.

"What's the meaning of this interruption?" the Dunmer demanded in a rich and cultivated, but fierce voice. "Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors."

Tralana pondered on how lucky the female elf was. If Heimskr's sermon hadn't still been ringing in her ears and disturbing her thoughts, she would most likely have involuntarily stabbed the Dunmer the moment the glint of her sword had made itself known in the corner of Tralana's eye.

"Excuse me," Tralana said, calmly. "I was given permission to enter the city so that I could speak with the Jarl."

The sound of the Bosmer's speech, as lofty and cultivated as her own, brought a hint of surprise to the Dunmer's thunderous, grey face, but she still held her ground and kept her sword drawn. Just then, two Whiterun guards came running over, their voices identifying them as the guards who had let Ralof and Tralana in to the city the previous day.

"Forgive us, Housecarl, we meant to inform you," one of them said, hastily from behind his helmet. "This elf arrived at the city gates yesterday with a Nord companion. They claim to have news of the dragon attack."

"And one of your villages is in danger," Tralana added to the Dunmer. "Riverwood, two miles south of here, on the bank of the White River. They don't have any defences against the dragon."

The Dunmer pursed her slate grey lips for a moment, before reluctantly sheathing her sword. Her blood red gaze then turned, fearsomely on the two guards.

"And _why _was I not informed that newcomers had entered the city?" she barked. "Much less newcomers who had requested to see the Jarl concerning the dragon attack?"

There was an awkward amount of mumbling and dithering from behind the iron faces, before the Dunmer snorted, and waved the guards away with her fine, grey hand.

"Go. Both of you. You're dismissed from gate duty from now on. You'll remain here on watch in Dragonsreach."

"Yes, Irileth!"

Tralana watched the guards quickly jogging away, the chainmail of their cuirasses rattling, before the Dunmer suddenly demanded her attention again with another imperious wave of her hand.

"Come. The Jarl will want to speak to you personally. Approach."

It was certainly no great stretch for Tralana to guess that this Dunmer, Irileth, held a great amount of authority in the Jarl's court; a fact which she found rather surprising, considering the general attitude towards elves that she had observed in Skyrim. Though the shorter-lived human races were understandably clueless when guessing the age of an elf, Tralana could tell that the Dunmer who now strode ahead of her was approaching her ninth decade, and was certainly battle-hardened – The strength of her posture, and the whitish scars that marked her sharp, narrow face, were testament enough of that. Her whole gait and manner reminded Tralana of an unmoveable pillar of stone, and her hair was a rather shocking shade of burnt auburn (rare for a Dark Elf, and contrasting strangely with her slate-coloured skin.)

"My Jarl," Irileth said, saluting, respectfully as she approached the throne. "A visitor from Riverwood. She claims to have witnessed the dragon attack."

The throne of Dragonsreach was an intimidating seat, not just for the person to stand before it, but also, Tralana imagined, for its occupier, as the throne was positioned directly beneath the gaping jaws of a dragon skull, its hollow eyes looking down on the long, cavernous hall like a gaunt vulture, leering at the lavish banquet tables that stood on either side of the glowing fire pit. Very few people sat at the tables, but they all watched Tralana, intently – A young, coal-haired Nord shield-maiden in steel armour, two Nord children with similarly unusual dark hair (a boy aged about thirteen, and a girl of perhaps eleven,) and a thickly-built, bearded Nord in impressive scaled armour and heavy war paint.

The Jarl himself leaned, observingly back on his throne, dominating the hall with his iron-like yet also regal presence. He was middle-aged, with the typical long, fair hair and blue eyes of a Nord, and a face looking like it was formed of strong, pale oak rather than flesh. Though adorned in rich furs and costly fabrics, with a jewelled, gold circlet resting on his brow, he was clearly a seasoned warrior, and had a steel sword curiously similar to the fine weapon Irileth possessed fastened to his belt. At his side stood a middle-aged, balding, but finely dressed Imperial, who surveyed Tralana with rather suspicious little eyes as she stepped up to the throne.

"So," Jarl Balgruuf said, his accent strong and undeniably Skyrim; "You were at Helgen. You saw this dragon with your own eyes?"

The Jarl's manner was not as royal as Tralana had expected it to be. True, he was still without question a king, and would have been a figure to demand respect even without his throne and fine clothes, but his tone was earnest and emotional, and without arrogance.

"I did," Tralana replied, instinctively making a gesture similar to Irileth's when she had approached the throne. "It burned Helgen to the ground. Nothing left. My…companion and I saw it disappear over Bleak Falls Barrow."

Jarl Balgruuf's strong face filled with shock and horror for a moment.

"_By Ysmir!" _he intoned, turning to look at the Imperial who stood twitching, nervously beside him. "Irileth was right!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Tralana saw the Dunmer lift her chin slightly, a satisfied light in her ruby eyes.

"What do you say now, Proventus?" the words were spoken by the savage looking Nord with the heavy war paint, who stood up from his seat at the banquet table, and challengingly approached the throne. "Do we continue to trust in the mere strength of our walls? Against a _dragon?" _

The Imperial man gave the Nord an indignant stare, and looked as though he were biting on his tongue.

"My lord," Irileth said, urgently stepping forward; "We should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger. If that dragon is lurking somewhere in the mountains –"

"The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!" the Imperial man, Proventus, interjected suddenly. "He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him!"

Tralana stared in outrage at the Imperial; an outrage that was apparently shared by others within the banquet hall.

"Damn it, man!" the war painted Nord bellowed, looking for a moment as though he were going to draw his sword. "Can't you think of anything but your damned politics? There's a dragon out there!"

"A dragon that's already destroyed an entire town!" Tralana joined in, furiously, shuddering to think of Riverwood in the same chaos as Helgen, of the remains of Gerdur and of Ralof's young nephew adding to the charred bodies she had already seen. "It burned everything, _destroyed _everything! I saw it..!"

"This is not the time to be taking rash action," Proventus sniffed, as though he were dismissing some hysterical accusation or delusional fantasy. "Skyrim is in the throes of a very unstable civil war, and I simply feel that we need more _solid _information before we do anything such as deploying troops. We should not – "

"_Enough!"_

There was the thump of a fist on wood, and Jarl Balgruuf had suddenly risen from his throne, glaring down at the Imperial from his impressive height.

"I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!" he almost roared, forcing Proventus in to a shrinking silence, before turning to the heavily war painted Nord with an equally stern gaze. "And Hrongar, I've had enough of your constant bickering with Proventus! We aren't Stormcloaks, brother, we won't turn against our own allies! He is my Steward, and I expect you to treat him with the respect his station demands!"

The Nord retreated back to the banquet table, his eyes fixed, coldly on Proventus, and swiftly gulped down a silver flagon of mead. Jarl Balgruuf's nostrils flared, passionately, and he looked to the Dunmer woman who stood waiting near his throne.

"Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

"Yes, my Jarl," Irileth said with a salute, and she marched from the palace in the company of a few guards, who were summoned with a flick of her hand.

"If you'll excuse me," Proventus mumbled, indignantly, though quietly enough so as not to sound too protesting; "I'll return to my duties."

Tralana did not fail to notice the rather poisonous look the Steward gave her as he stepped down from beneath the dragon skull, and retreated in to one of the side passageways.

"You've done Whiterun a service," a warm voice said, shockingly close to Tralana. "I won't forget it."

She repressed a violent start as she suddenly turned to see Jarl Balgruuf standing directly in front of her, smiling with true gratitude, and gesturing off to the side of the banquet hall with one hand.

"If I could beg it of you, there _is _another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your…particular talents, perhaps?"

Tralana was half intimidated and half admiring of the knowing look she saw in the Jarl's eyes, as though he could read everything about her past simply by looking at her, but instead of questioning her on it or trying to confirm his suspicions, chose to keep it to himself as an unspoken pact between them.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked, cautiously.

The Jarl motioned for her to follow as he crossed the banquet hall, affectionately touching the cheek of the young girl at the table, and nodding to the armoured woman who sat beside her.

"Come," Balgruuf said to Tralana. "I have someone I'd like you to meet. Farengar Secret-Fire, my Court Wizard. He's been looking in to a matter related to these dragons, and…_rumours _of dragons," he corrected himself.

Tralana could feel a respectful smile creeping on to her face as she followed the Jarl. He was a wise and logical man, but not a hesitant or overly-cautious one. She could well imagine that there had been many men, and that there were many more men yet to come, who would gladly follow Jarl Balgruuf the Greater to their doom.

* * *

"Farengar. I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project."

The shuttered room was clearly a base for planning military operations, with its many maps of Skyrim and Tamriel sprawled on surfaces and pinned to wooden boards; but it was also a sanctuary of magic, with bottled potions and glittering soul gems scattered among the papers and tomes, and the ethereal, green glow of an enchanting table's orb broke through the dim shadows like the eye of a sabre cat. The air was thick and sweet with the fumes of strange ingredients simmering on the alchemy station in the corner, and in the centre of the room stood a robed mage, his face hidden by an ill-fitting hood that almost fell over his eyes. Shuffling among his books and notes, he at first did not seem all that interested in the presence of either Tralana or the Jarl.

As the mage continued to stand there in silence, not even deigning to look up at them, Tralana stepped forward, and gave a sharp cough, attempting to introduce herself to the mage. To her fury, he only greeted her with an outstretched palm, requesting silence while he continued to move papers aside. Finally, after apparently finding the book he was looking for, Farengar looked up at his visitor, and lifted his hood slightly from his face, revealing himself to be a thin-faced Nord, with a rather long, clefted chin.

"So," he began, his voice dryly academic, and with note of boredom in it that was more likely his natural tone, rather than an expressed emotion; "The Jarl thinks you can be of use to me in my research in to the dragons? Yes, as it happens, I _could_ use you for something. I need someone to fetch something for me."

He promptly presented Tralana with the book he was holding, but the Bosmer stood in slight surprise at the mage's utterly direct approach. She doubted that he had even had time to see her face properly before handing her the job.

"Fetch what, precisely?" Tralana asked, as she took the book from Farengar, and found that it opened naturally to a marked page, which was pinned with scraps of notes, and bore an image of a stone tablet, engraved with a map of forests, lakes, and mountains, and what looked like a stylised representation of a dragon's head.

"Ah," Farengar said with a rather unsettling and clearly unpractised grin. "Well, when I say _fetch, _I really mean delve in to a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

"Wonderful," Tralana sighed (It was really no more than she had expected.) "And what does this have to do with the dragons?"

Farengar indicated the book in her hands, asking her to study the old ink drawing of the unusual stone tablet.

"You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumours, impossibilities." The mage tutted in a superior way. "One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside of his experience as being impossible. I myself only regarded them as a hypothetical, mythical phenomena when I began to study them, but I wished to know the legends of where they had supposedly gone all those years ago. And when rumours of their return started, I wanted to know where they could be coming from.

I learned of this stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow, the 'Dragonstone.' It's said to be a map of dragon burial sites."

Tralana looked up, sharply, her heart giving a slightly anxious flutter.

"Bleak Falls Barrow?"

"Yes," Farengar said, completely oblivious of her reaction to the name. "The Dragonstone will no doubt be interred in the main chamber. All you have to do is bring it to me. Simplicity itself."

"Wait a moment. What exactly can you tell me about Bleak Falls – ?"

"Off to Bleak Falls Barrow with you now," the mage said, taking the book from Tralana's hands, and continuing to study its ink blotted pages. "The Jarl is not a patient man. Neither am I, come to think of it."

Tralana was sure she should have been irritated with the man, but his utterly oblivious attitude could invoke nothing but confusion in her, and a kind of resignation to the fact that this may have just been the wizard's way. Jarl Balgruuf clapped a hand on the rather dumbstruck elf's shoulder, smiling at her in a slightly apologetic manner.

"You'll be paid well for your services, I assure you," he said, turning her towards the doors of the room. "And we shan't be sending you off to a death sentence. I'll be more than happy to grant you a gift from my armoury, as a token of my esteem. I'll also have Farengar prepare you a spider repellent potion to coat your armour with. I expect you'll need it in Bleak Falls Barrow."

"Hm?" Farengar glanced up from his intense studying by the enchanting table. "Oh yes, yes of course, my Jarl."

It suddenly occurred to Tralana that it had happened again. She had allowed herself to be roped in to another agreement that bound her to certain people until it was completed, and she was once again being kept from running as far away from cities, from conflict, from _life _as she possibly could…But Jarl Balgruuf seemed to have upon her the same effect as Gerdur, if not more so. There was an honesty and a gratitude there that completely threw her off balance, that tugged at her hardened heartstrings, and warmed her after having known nothing but…the absence of those things for a long time. And of course, the chance to earn some coin was not a thing to be sniffed at. Tralana was starting to feel rather glad that she had ended up in Skyrim.

"And I won't be sending you alone," Tralana suddenly heard Balgruuf say. "I happen to have a warrior here in Dragonsreach in whom I have every confidence, and who I am sure will serve you loyally and well."

The Jarl threw open the doors of Farengar's dark workroom, freeing the peculiar odours of the alchemy station, and letting the light of the banquet hall flood in.

"Lydia! I must speak with you!"


	7. The Golden Claw

**The Golden Claw**

"A union with the elves will benefit the Empire little if they all ride like _you. _Strong warriors need to be as steady on horseback as they are on the ground. Sometimes, stalking in the shadows or hitting your enemy from afar with magic or a bow just isn't enough. Gods help us when we get to Bleak Falls Barrow, or worse, if another dragon swoops down…"

Tralana grumbled between her teeth, as she once again slowed Allie to try and adjust the mare's head to guide her in the right direction. Had she not been convinced that she would need the shield-maiden's help in the ancient Nord ruin, she would have turned to show her just how effective a firebolt or a well-aimed arrow could be! This was only the latest in the near constant stream of criticism that the impudent Lydia had been treating Tralana to since the two of them had set out together from Whiterun, and frankly, she was getting sick of it.

' "_Serve me loyally and well" my…!'_

"She's limping," Lydia's pretty but by now decidedly unwelcome voice piped up again from behind Tralana. "Let me take a look at her."

Tralana pursed her lips, forcefully, as she reined in her mount, holding in the urge to say something she might later regret. The two of them dismounted, Tralana from Allie, and Lydia from her own horse, Bruna, a sturdy bay mare, as she came forward to examine the limping animal.

Lydia's rather obsessive attitude towards matters of honour and warriorhood had been evident from the moment Tralana had been introduced to her. The shield-maiden had sworn in terms archaic and overly poetic even for the Nords to protect Tralana with her life, but was visibly disappointed by the person she had been ordered to serve. It was clear that Tralana did not live up to the image of the idealised great warrior that Lydia so admired and clearly aspired to, which was ironic, considering that, to Tralana, Lydia did not look like much herself, at least in terms of a Nord shield-maiden. Her most striking asset was without doubt her beauty. The woman could not long have reached her twentieth year, her short, braided hair coal-black, unlike many of her Nordic brethren, her face as delicate and shapely as any elf's, and her skin snow white and flawless, and very noticeably _without _battle scars. Her general air and gait was also much softer than that of someone like Jarl Balgruuf or Irileth, and her irritation with Tralana did not sound like someone with a naturally gained authority, but someone immature, full of ambition, but lacking a seasoned warrior's discipline. Though that did not seem to stop her from thinking that she knew best.

"She's got a stone in her shoe," Lydia tutted, as though this was somehow Tralana's fault. "I'll pry it out, and then we can keep moving. Riverwood's not far ahead, and if we're lucky, we can make it to Bleak Falls Barrow by nightfall. Just _try _to sit more firmly in the saddle, and remember, it's a _squeeze _to the left or the right, not a tug!"

Tralana folded her arms, and gave the Nord a cocked eyebrow and a silent stare in response, leaning back against a nearby tree. Lydia scowled.

"Haven't you ever ridden before?" she asked, as though riding were as crucial and as easy a thing to learn as breathing.

"Depends," Tralana said with a scuff of her leather boot (part of the handsome studded leather armour Jarl Balgruuf had given her, which was coated with Farengar's spider repellent recipe.)

"How can it 'depend?' It's either a yes or a no!"

"If you mean horses, then yes, a little," Tralana replied, flicking at an insect that had settled on her arm. "But I'm personally more experienced with hippogriffs. They're rather different to horses, as you can imagine."

Tralana tried not to smirk at the wide-eyed, bewildered look on Lydia's face.

"You _do _know what a hippogriff is?" she asked her companion, innocently. "Don't you?"

The subtlest shade of pink coloured Lydia's cheeks, but she only frowned at the elf, and plucked the stone from Allie's shoe, before returning to her own horse.

"We're dealing with horses now," she said, gruffly, while Tralana chuckled to herself as she remounted Allie. "That's how we get around in Skyrim. If you don't like it, then maybe you should have stayed in your precious forests, _elf!"_

Tralana's smile fell, but she refused to give the shield-maiden a word or even a look in response. Instead, she simply kicked at Allie's flanks, and urged the horse further up the stone flagged road.

* * *

Riverwood was teaming. The previously quiet village now boasted at least a dozen Whiterun guards, hurrying from house to house, communicating with the villagers, fetching weapons from the blacksmith, and creating barricades along the river's edge and at the end of the stone bridge, blocking Tralana and Lydia's path. Many of the villagers were retreating inside their homes, casting nervous glances up at the sky.

"Halt!" a guard rushed out to meet the two approaching travellers, drawing his sword. "What brings…?"

His whole demeanour suddenly changed, however, as he looked past Tralana and saw Lydia, clad in her steel armour with its fur trimmings and Nordic medallion, sitting proudly on her horse.

"Oh. My apologies, my lady. You and your companion can go right ahead."

Tralana glanced back at Lydia in surprise. She had not expected a young, inexperienced warrior such as Lydia to receive such respect. But, she must have been a resident of the Jarl's court for a reason, whether it was because she had some skill Tralana had not been able to perceive, or because she had bought her way in through influential family connections.

"Carry on, guardsman," Lydia said with a nod, as the barricades were pushed back to allow them entry. "We'll tie the horses up here, at the Sleeping Giant Inn. We'll need to prepare before we head up to Bleak Falls Barrow. I'm going to head to the blacksmith to sharpen my sword and improve my shield. You should go to the Riverwood Trader to get us some potions. Here, take this gold."

"I know a family here," Tralana said, catching the coin purse, and casting a look back to Gerdur's lumber mill, which was now crowded with workmen and guards yelling commands, apparently in the process of constructing a gate. "Gerdur and Hod, the owners of the lumber mill. They took me in when I escaped from Helgen, they could – "

"The lumber mill owners?" Lydia whipped round, her eyes suddenly hard and suspicious. "You shouldn't consort with them! We don't need their help!"

Tralana almost staggered back in surprise.

"Why not?" she asked. "They could have supplies they'd be willing to give us."

"We can get our _own _supplies," Lydia said, haughtily. "We don't need to ask for help from a family of traitors."

Fear bloomed, uncomfortably in Tralana's chest, and she gave Lydia a questioningly look. The Nord seemed a little reluctant to continue, and spoke almost as though she were addressing a child.

"You saw Ulfric Stormcloak, at Helgen?" she said. "He's the leader of a rebellion here in Skyrim. A rebellion that wants to uproot the Empire and force them to leave our land, leave Skyrim to fend for itself. The Stormcloaks have been slaughtering anyone who disagrees with them, whether they be soldiers, or simple townsfolk, like these people. That family who owns the lumber mill, one of them joined the Stormcloak army. They're traitors, and that brother of theirs who sided with Ulfric is wanted by the Imperial Legion. All Stormcloak soldiers are."

Tralana tried to keep her face calm and neutral under Lydia's gaze. She just hoped that no one in Whiterun would recognise Ralof, or that he would at least lay low in the Temple until she returned. She had sworn to return him to Gerdur, after all. It was understandable that she should worry the idiot might give himself away…

"That's strange," she said, as a thought occurred to her. "From what I've seen, you and the Stormcloaks seem to think in very similar ways. And Ulfric's an incredible warrior, unlike any I've ever seen or heard of. Why would you be so against him and his cause?"

Lydia bristled with anger, and marched past Tralana towards the blacksmith.

"Things are more complicated than the Stormcloaks make them sound," she said as she went. "I wouldn't expect an outsider like you to understand."

"Perhaps I understand much more than you think, Lydia," Tralana muttered under her breathe.

* * *

"Well, one of us has to do something!"

Tralana was surprised by a shout as she entered the small, warmly lit shop known as the Riverwood Trader. Shelves were lined with breads, cheeses, potions, wines, and alchemical ingredients, and an array of iron helmets, swords, and enchanted mage robes were on display on a nearby dresser.

"I said _no!" _came a responding shout. Two dark haired Imperials, a man and a woman, both with strikingly similar noses, cheekbones, and eyes, stood arguing in the middle of the shop, the man behind the counter, and the woman standing, defiantly by the fireplace. "No adventures, no theatrics, _no thief-chasing, Camilla!"_

"Well, what are you going to do then, huh?" the young woman demanded, hotly. "Let's hear it!"

"We are _done _talking about this!" the older Imperial flustered, trying to leave the conversation.

"Ahem."

The pair looked up, startled at the sound of Tralana's delicate cough. The Imperial man reddened, waving the younger woman (clearly his sister,) off to the side with a harshly commanding hand. Visibly outraged, the woman gave a frustrated _"Ugh!" _of annoyance, before throwing up her hands, and storming from the shop. Tralana watched her leave, flinching only a little at the bone-shuddering slam of the door, before turning with an arched eyebrow to the embarrassed shopkeeper.

"Sorry you had to hear that," he said, sheepishly. "Name's Lucan Valerius. I don't know what you overheard, but the Riverwood Trader is still open. Feel free to shop."

"Something wrong?" Tralana asked, curiously, sauntering over to the counter. The shopkeeper Valerius scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortably.

"Well, uh…We did have a bit of a, um, break in. _But, _we still have plenty to sell!" he added, hastily. "Robbers were only after one thing."

"Really?" Tralana said with a frown, glancing about at the many valuable potions and the glistening, costly mage robes, all worthy loot for any thief. "What, exactly?"

Valerius sighed, and tapped a large, empty space on the counter, clearly reserved for a prized product.

"An ornament," he said, bitterly; "Solid gold, in the shape of a dragon's claw."

Tralana's dark eyes lit up with intrigue.

"_Solid _gold?" she mused. "How large was it?"

Valerius indicated the size with his hands, which caused Tralana's eyes to widen considerably. Such a thing would have been worth hundreds of septims!

"Thieves have holed themselves up in Bleak Falls Barrow," Valerius went on. "That's how desperate they are not to get caught! It works, mind you, no one would dare go up there, especially not now. Sven's mother's been going on about how she saw a dragon flying over the damned place, and now it looks like the old crone was right! You're from Valenwood, aren't you?" he asked, leaning over the counter. "Faendal's from Valenwood, he's been teaching my sister Camilla how to use the bow. You should visit him, if you're going to be in town long."

"I'm afraid not," said Tralana. "I'm on an errand, for the Jarl. It's to do with the dragons. He's sent me up to Bleak Falls Barrow."

Valerius looked thoughtful for a moment, and then a look of joy and relief suddenly burst across his face.

"Really?" he cried. "Bleak Falls Barrow? Listen, I've got some coin coming in with my last shipment, and I'm sure you're more than capable if the Jarl's hiring you. There'll be 300 septims waiting here for you if you can bring my claw back."

* * *

"That took longer than I expected," Lydia said, as Tralana exited the Riverwood Trader with her bag of potions. "Though it looks like you haggled the man down and got a good amount for your gold."

"Half of these were free," Tralana grinned, giving the bag a heft, and then transferring its contents to her saddle bag. "Lucan Valerius is a very grateful and very desperate man. Lydia, I know at least one thing we can expect to encounter at Bleak Falls Barrow."

"What's that?" Lydia said, rather disbelievingly.

"Bandits."

* * *

"Well, Valerius was right," Lydia whispered through the intense howling of the wind. "There's four of them up there. Probably more inside."

Shivering, Tralana squinted through the white haze of the mountain blizzard, but could only vaguely make out the dim forms of the bandits that Lydia had seemed to spot in an instant, though clearly, the Nord was at an advantage, being a native to this land. Snowfall was unheard of in Valenwood.

The hike to Bleak Falls Barrow had not been a forgiving one. Lydia had had the foresight to pack a fur cloak for Tralana, which she had to admit she was grateful for, as the leather armour did not provide much warmth. The mountain path that they had followed was ankle-deep with snow, and the blizzard that had darkened the skies about halfway up their ascent was relentless and biting cold. The horses, being a hearty breed, had seemed to make their way through it just fine, though Tralana and Lydia had left them partially concealed in the shelter of a couple of pine trees a little way back, so that they would not be spotted on their approach to the Barrow.

The Barrow itself, Tralana had no trouble seeing. It loomed above them like a great, gloomy shadow, jet black amongst the white, a peak-roofed structure encased in vaulting, stone arches of Nordic design, which at once reminded Tralana of both the stem of a Nord ship, and the ribs of some monstrous, long dead creature.

"They're coming!" Lydia hissed, drawing her sword, as the figures of two bandits suddenly became clearer, walking down the long flight of steps that led up to the Barrow.

"Get back!" Tralana said, retreating in to their previous position behind a sheltering rock. "One of them has a helmet, but I think I can hit the other one from here if I just – "

"_I'll kill you if I have to!"_

Tralana groaned inwardly, as she saw Lydia charging, sword first at the two heavily armoured bandits. Nords were not ones for stealth, it seemed.

Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately,) for Lydia, the huge, hulking bandit she had chosen to fight was equipped with a great steel battle axe. The weapon was a fearsome one to say the least, but it was slow to swing, and Lydia, as Tralana now witnessed, was faster than she looked. She backed up from his swings, and brought her sword down with a hack whenever the weight of her opponent's weapon dragged him down, and even blocked some of his potentially bone-crushing blows with her shield.

As she skirted about the edge of the small battle, Tralana spotted the second bandit, bedecked in an iron, horned helmet, pounding his way through the snow, sword and shield drawn. But, though he moved in her general direction, he was not looking right at her. She realised that that ridiculous helmet of his was hampering his vision, particularly in the blizzard, and he was almost blindly searching for her in the snow. Seeing the slate grey colour of her fur cloak, an idea flashed across Tralana's mind, and she knelt, bunching herself up as small as she could, and threw the cloak over her entire form, so that she looked like little more than a boulder. The heavy, crunching footsteps of the bandit plodded past her, and as soon as Tralana felt his back was turned to her, she thrust off the cloak, and kicked out at the bandit's legs, sending him falling face first on to the snow. Whipping out her dagger, Tralana pinned the stunned bandit beneath her, yanked off his helmet, and lifted his head by the hair, slashing his throat.

Several feet away, the snow was becoming just as crimson, as Lydia charged at her opponent with a savage cry, ramming her shield in to him, and causing him to stagger back, wildly. A blow of her sword arm brought him finally down on to one knee, where, to Tralana's astonishment, Lydia swung her blade with such force that the bandit's head was severed clean from his shoulders. The two barely had time to look at each other after they had slain their opponents, however, as a flurry of arrows suddenly came raining down on them, forcing them to leap aside. A couple of archers stood at the top of the steps, and, as Tralana and Lydia soon discovered, their aim was deadly.

"Hold on!" Lydia called, suddenly, and Tralana saw her unfastening the small, simple wooden bow that she carried on her back.

"Lydia, _wait!" _Tralana said, unfastening her own bow, but Lydia was already unleashing arrows on the two archers.

At first, it was a stalemate, the bandits' arrows merely grazing Lydia's armour, and Lydia's arrows missing their targets completely, but eventually, Lydia's arrows got close enough to fluster one of the bandits, breaking her concentration with her aim, and allowing Lydia to shoot her in the arm, and then finally the chest, piercing her heart. The other archer, however, simply began unloading arrows faster, until Lydia was caught in the midst of an arrow storm with nowhere to run.

Tralana's eyes were fixed on the one remaining archer, and she watched as he released one arrow, then paused before his hand just started to come up to take another. Tralana immediately dashed to Lydia's side, avoiding the path of the incoming arrow, and pulling back her bowstring in unison with the bandit, as he notched yet another arrow. But the bandit had to pause to take his aim. Tralana did not. And so it was Tralana who released first, the forked headed arrow flying through the air, and hitting the bandit squarely between his eyes. His final arrow was released by dead hands, and Tralana yanked Lydia to one side. The arrow landed with a soft thump in the snow.

The Nord and the elf stood there in silence for a moment, looking about at the blood dappled snow and the bodies of the defeated bandits. They glanced up at each other at exactly the same moment, and as their eyes met, the two of them suddenly broke in to an exhilarated and relieved laughter.

* * *

"What _are _these things?" Tralana said, wrinkling her nose with disgust at the large, rat-like creature which lay dead at her feet. Its corpse smelled worse than anything she had ever encountered!

"Skeevers," Lydia said with a similarly disgusted sneer. "Don't get too close, those things are crawling with disease. I'm surprised they're the worst things we've come across down here. The stories about Bleak Falls Barrow were much more…impressive."

After clearing out the few remaining bandits they had found in the entrance hall of the Barrow, Tralana and Lydia had journeyed further down in to the dank, decaying stone crypt, its twisting corridors crumbling and full of invading roots and vines, but lit with burning torches. Someone had been here recently. Could it be that yet more of the bandits had travelled down so far in to the Barrow?

"Be careful what you wish for, Lydia," Tralana said, crouching, cautiously, as the two of them descended down a rotting, spiral wooden staircase in to a slightly more well preserved series of chambers. "I have a feeling the skeevers aren't the only things lurking down here."

The walls of the room were covered in fine spider's silk.

Their path was much darker now, as it was here that the trail of lit torches ceased, but there were signs of someone having passed through in the broken cobwebs and the scuffed dust on the stone floor. The pair crept, quietly, as the cobwebs grew thicker and thicker, but in the dim light, Lydia's shield brushed against an old stone urn, which suddenly crashed to the floor. The two of them froze.

"Is…Is someone coming?" a terrified voice called, frantically. "Is that you, Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?"

Tralana and Lydia glanced at each other, curiously, and continued on their way through the web filled chambers, until they reached a doorway covered in a thick curtain of silk.

"Stand back," Lydia said, drawing her sword.

Knowing better by now than to get in the way of a Nord warrior with blade in hand, Tralana allowed Lydia to hack through the tangles of spider's silk, and followed her in to the next chamber. It was here that the cobwebs were thickest, choking everything, and hanging from the ceiling in bundles that ensnared the spider's caught prey. This prey, as it turned out, included a live Dunmer, who was suspended midway up a wall at the far end of the chamber.

"Help!" the Dunmer cried out at the sight of them. "Over here! _Help!"_

As Tralana and Lydia made their way across the chamber, however, a huge shadow suddenly eclipsed them.

"Oh, Arkay!" the Dunmer whimpered. "Get it away from me! Get it away!"

"Akatosh preserve us!" Lydia gasped, staring in horror at the ceiling. _"Look!"_

Tralana slowly turned her gaze upwards, and almost screamed at the sight of the Frostbite Spider. She had seen creatures like it before, but this one was much, _much _larger than the ones in the cave under Helgen, or any spider of Valenwood.

As the monster descended on them, however, Tralana found that it seemed to completely ignore her. One of its great, thick legs carelessly collided with her, knocking her to the floor, and it was then that she suddenly remembered Farengar's spider repellent potion. It was daubed all over her armour. Lydia, however, had no such protection…

"_Agh! _Tralana, help!"

Tralana's head snapped up to see Lydia pinned beneath the great bulk of the spider, while the beast hissed and bared its dripping fangs above her, ready to strike. Lydia's sword arm was reaching above her head, trying to feel for her sword, which had been thrown from her grip when the spider had pounced. In an instant, Tralana clapped her hands together, summoning a spark of blue lightning, and throwing a bolt of it directly at the spider. The creature was staggered, but not greatly injured, however the movement allowed Lydia to free herself from beneath it, and she swept up her sword, immediately pivoted round, and thrust the blade up to the hilt in to the beast's head. There was an explosion of venom, followed by a sickening, dying squelch, before the giant spider's legs buckled beneath it.

Sighing with relief, Tralana pulled herself up, and approached the Nord shield-maiden as she hauled her sword out with a grunt, wrinkling her nose at the sight of the greenish venom that covered the blade. There were no words spoken, but Lydia smiled and nodded, and patted the elf, appreciatively on the shoulder, before the two of them approached the trapped Dunmer.

"You did it!" the Dark Elf said, excitedly. "You killed it! Good. Now cut me down, before anything else shows up."

"Hold on!" Tralana said, drawing her dagger, and aligning it with the Dunmer's throat. "Where's the golden claw?"

"Yes, yes, the claw," the Dunmer said, wriggling in his silk bonds. "I know how it works. The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories…I know how they all fit together! Just help me down, and I'll show you. You won't believe the power the Nords have hidden here!"

Tralana and Lydia exchanged looks, before Tralana gave a brief nod, and Lydia drew her sword in response.

"You'd better not be lying, elf!" she said, as she carefully cut away at the cobwebs. "We've been sent by the Jarl himself, and if you so much as…_Oof!"_

In the blink of an eye, the newly released Dunmer had punched Lydia in the face, and was taking off up the stone corridor that led away from the spider's nest, laughing.

"You fool!" he called back over his shoulder. "Why should I share the treasure with anyone?"

Calling back, however, was the Dunmer's biggest mistake. As Lydia picked herself up off the ground, a hand pressed to her sore face, she suddenly heard a whistling noise, and a dying cry from the Dunmer. The Dark Elf lay sprawled on his front a little way up the corridor, an arrow protruding from the back of his head, and Tralana refastened her bow to her back.

"You're good with that bow of yours, aren't you?" Lydia said with a smile.

Tralana smirked back, and made her way over to the dead Dunmer. In his satchel, she found two things. A journal, and a magnificent, gleaming golden claw.

"Well, there's Valerius's stolen ornament," Lydia said. "But what did that Dark Elf mean by 'hidden power' and 'the door in the Hall of Stories?' Why would he come all the way down here? Does that journal say anything about it?"

"I don't know," Tralana said, flipping to the last page in the tattered leather book. "It's in Dunmeris. I only know a small amount. It says something about the ancient Nord heroes and the claw being a key of some sort…Wait a minute…" Tralana placed her finger on a particular sentence. "It says…_The solution is in the palm of your hands._"

Tralana looked from the beautiful claw to Lydia in confusion, but the Nord simply shook her head, and sheathed her sword.

"I don't know about any door or key, or any hidden power in Bleak Falls Barrow. What I _do _know is that we need to find the Dragonstone. Come on, let's keep going, we must be past the worst of it by now…"

* * *

"You were saying?" Tralana said, as the two of them faced the swinging, bladed pendulums that blocked their path.

"A typical trap," Lydia sighed, staring at the blades in frustration. "I can't believe I didn't guess this would be here!"

"Well, seeing as these things are so typical of Nordic ruins," said Tralana, removing her bow and her quiver of arrows from her back, and kneeling to the floor, "can you tell me if there's a release mechanism on the other side?"

Lydia stared as her companion slid her bow and arrows across the floor, passing them beneath the danger of the swinging blades, and depositing them safely on the other side.

"There should be," she said, slowly. "But what are you going to – ?"

Listening, intently to the rhythm that the blades made as they swung from one side to the other, Tralana performed a deft handspring as the first blade swept aside, and then fell, tucking her limbs in, and using the starting energy of the handspring to propel herself in to a forward roll, just as the next blade swung out, coasting above her, and missing her by mere inches. It was then a matter of repeating the exactly timed pattern of 'jump, spring, tuck, roll,' to avoid the swinging of the pendulums, until Tralana reached the other side, and flipped over from her last handspring to land on her feet, and turned to look back at Lydia. It was all she could do not to laugh at the Nord woman's face.

But Tralana's laughter was stopped a moment later when she saw the state of the chain that hung on the other side of the pendulum trap, acting as the switch to turn off the mechanism. Namely, that there wasn't one. Tralana could see the coil of chain that fed in to the wall to pull at the gears and bring them to a halt, but the pull chain itself lay in a rusted heap on the floor.

"No!" she cried, looking back through the still swinging blades at her companion. "Lydia, the switch is broken! I can't turn off the trap!"

Lydia's eyes widened, and she looked, nervously at the trap.

"What should I do, my lady?" she asked.

Tralana thought for a moment, glancing over her shoulder at the dark, stone passage, before reaching her decision, and fastening her quiver and bow to her back.

"I'll go on ahead and find the Dragonstone," she said. "You head back through the Barrow, and take Allie and Bruna back to Riverwood. Wait for me at the Sleeping Giant Inn. If I'm not back by morning, tell the Jarl I'm dead."

"_What?" _Lydia looked as though she might simply run through the swinging blades. "But, Tralana…"

"There's no way you can get through, Lydia!" Tralana said, sternly. "You have to send word back to the Jarl in case I don't return! If I find the Dragonstone, I'll find a way out, and meet you in Riverwood before morning, I'm sure of it."

Lydia hesitated, her eyes passing, nervously over the bladed pendulums, and seemingly trying to judge how quickly she could move through them, but she finally accepted the impossibility of it, and nodded to Tralana.

"Alright, but be careful," she said. "I told you there were stories about this place. It's said that the dead walk these halls."

"I'm not afraid of ghosts, Lydia," Tralana said with a determined parting smile, as she made her way down the stone passageway. Lydia's face, however, was grim.

"I wasn't talking about ghosts, Tralana," she muttered.


	8. The Wall of Words

**The Wall of Words**

The catacombs were an eerie, unnerving place, particularly for Tralana, who had never seen the dead preserved and lain out in such a manner. The endless, winding stone chambers reeked with the stench of death, but the odour was mingled with and corrupted by the smell of herbs and ancient perfumes, used to keep the corpses intact, and therefore, more human looking for as long as possible. If the embalmers of so many centuries ago could have seen the fruits of their work, however, Tralana thought they would have cursed themselves for ever doing such a thing. The mummified bodies that occupied the niches in the walls looked so far from human, it was difficult to believe that they ever were. Their skin was a grey, fleshy cocoon, held together by strands of thick, rope-like ligaments, while their fingers and toes were thin, crooked, and boney, like the branches of a gnarled old tree. Their faces were so hollow, they looked like the crudest impression of a face, carved out of dry grey wood, and the ancient armour most of them wore hung loose on their incomplete frames.

As Tralana crept her way through each small, capsule-like chamber, home to several dead, she could not help but feel that there was something distinctly _wrong. _There was something that should not have been, even in this vile, otherworldly place, where mortal bodies were distorted so grotesquely, and yet, as empty as they were, looked as though they might stir at any moment, in the soft, glowing candlelight…

_Candlelight?_

Tralana spun round in horror as realisation dawned on her, and found herself looking up at one of the peculiarly erected corpses in its wall alcove, standing as if placed on guard. She had not seen any more traces of the bandits she and Lydia had long ago disposed of, and the crafty Dunmer, who she was sure was the last of them, appeared to have been the one to have travelled furthest in to the Barrow. He had never reached the catacombs. Furthermore, no one ever journeyed up to Bleak Falls Barrow, not even the local Nordic inhabitants of Riverwood, to pay respect to the long dead. This place was not treated as a shrine.

How, then, could there be lit candles in a tomb that had not been disturbed by living beings for centuries upon centuries?

There was a terrifying crackling, as of old bones being stretched after long disuse; grey dust and cobwebs drifted, newly stirred, on the stifling, stagnant air; and Tralana felt herself frozen to the spot as two piercing blue eyes opened in the face of the mummified being stood in front of her, glowing with an ethereal horror. Then, another creature awoke. And then another. And then another still, and then another, so that the once still catacombs were suddenly 'alive,' in a sense, with movement. Tralana's hand was on the hilt of her dagger, but it refused to move, frozen in to place by paralyzing fear and…_No._

No, Tralana's eyes said with a gleam of savage fire, no, she would _not _be afraid, not be so helpless and rendered weak by fear! She had already once broken her promise to never feel that way again when the dragon had attacked Helgen, and she would _not _do it a second time! She would not be afraid to fight the dead and touch their vile, unnatural skin, she would not hold her breathe against the smell of decay and preserving oils and…and…

Tralana glanced down at the familiar, sickly, greasy smell. Beneath her boots was a pool of bear fat, and above her hung its source (or at least one of its sources.) A clay lantern. Drawing her dagger, Tralana leapt up and grabbed the leather strip that the lantern hung from, turned herself upside down to plant her feet, firmly against the ceiling, and then cut the end of the leather, letting the lantern fall to the floor. The clay smashed, the dying candle flame within ignited the bear fat, and suddenly burst in to a roaring sea of fire, engulfing the wandering corpses, and turning them to charred, black remains. Still clinging to the ceiling, Tralana carefully reached in to the buckled pouch at her waist, and took out one of the many brews Lucan Valerius had given her – This one was a bottle of Ice Wraith Essence, a strong, barely diluted blend. Uncorking the bottle, Tralana watched as the stream of almost luminous blue liquid tumbled to the ground, through the orange flames, and mingled with the bear fat that kept them burning, until the flames gradually began to die. They faded and faded in to a shallow, whispering pool of blue fire, before finally being extinguished, leaving nothing but a strong smell of burning, and a strange purple stain on the stone floor, which Tralana dropped to with a thump.

* * *

The deepest depths of Bleak Falls Barrow gave way in to a series of caverns, which must have served as the foundations of the once splendid structure. Too many of the Barrow's original passageways had caved in or been overtaken by tree roots, and so Tralana had to follow the rushing stream that passed through an iron grate, and flowed in to the great, airy cave system, rich with moss and glowing mushrooms. The stream eventually toppled over the edge of a stone precipice, down what almost appeared to be a naturally formed tower, with the pale, green-tinged moonlight pouring in from above. It gave Tralana an excellent vantage point, and she made quick work of another one of those roaming dead creatures she saw patrolling the natural stone bridge below, before following the caves down to the bridge herself.

What she found after that was spectacular. The natural caves led back round in to the constructed walls of the Barrow, beyond the cave-ins and the impenetrable tangles of tree roots, but these were not the broad, twisting stone passageways and simple rooms she had encountered before. They were vast, temple-like, the walls of vaulting, ivy covered stone, carved with scrolling Nordic designs so beautifully preserved, it was as though the ancients themselves might walk in at any moment. And, considering that there was a good chance they may in fact do just that, Tralana was careful to avoid any of the sarcophaguses she came across in the great stone halls.

At the far end of this buried sanctuary was a great set of wooden, iron fitted doors, barely touched by moss. Despite their fortunate fate, however, Tralana found it a little difficult to force them open after their having remained shut for so many centuries. Long disuse and neglect was almost as effective as any lock. Finally, she managed it, and found herself staring down a long, elaborately carved, stone passageway, the warm light from the mysteriously still burning scones doing nothing to help her uneasiness. As she made her way down the hall, Tralana observed the beautiful scenes that were carved in to the stone panels of the walls, depicting numerous things – Waves of soldiers pouring over a burning land of mountains; great, winged beasts flying through the air, that Tralana knew could only be dragons; and, most curious of all, people kneeling before a magnificently robed man or creature (it was actually difficult to say which,) surrounded by swirls of what appeared to be fire. So _this _was the Hall of Stories. Where, then, was the door?

At the end of the passageway, Tralana found herself face to face with a dead end, or at least what _appeared _to be one. On close inspection, however, the wall was revealed in fact not to be a wall, but a great, circular stone door. It had no handle of any sort, and seemed to work more like a gate if anything, but there was no switch or pull chain to be seen. Instead, the door appeared to be fitted with some sort of strange mechanism (The ancient Nords had indeed been very clever with their traps and puzzles.) In its centre were three, moving rings, each one inside the other, with the outermost ring being the largest, and the innermost ring being the smallest. In the centre of the smallest ring was a strange indentation. An indentation in the shape of a dragon's claw…

Her mind racing, Tralana removed the golden claw from her satchel, and looked at it, curiously. That Dunmer's journal had called the claw a key. He'd also said something about markings. Moving the stone rings revealed that they each bore a set of symbols – a moth, an owl, and a bear – but only one symbol could be seen on each ring at a time. So, it was a matter of getting the symbols in the right order. The words of the journal suddenly came rushing back to Tralana – _'The solution is in the palm of your hand.'_

Examining the claw, Tralana discovered three symbols moulded in to the gold in the centre of the dragon claw's palm, a bear, a moth, and an owl. Turning the three rings until their symbols matched the order displayed on the claw, Tralana then placed the claw in to the indentation in the centre of the massive door, twisted it in the manner of a key, stood back, and hoped. The rings suddenly turned of their own accord, dust fell from the ceiling, and there was a heavy grating noise as the stone door slowly sank in to the floor, revealing a flight of steps that led up a circular hallway.

She was close now.

* * *

A flurry of bats greeted Tralana as she walked between the ancient stone pillars in the cave. Moss and pebbles crunched under her feet, and the sound of rushing water echoed from further up in the cavern, where more moonlight shone in between the delicate green ferns. There was something strange in the air. Tralana could feel it. She half felt as though she were being pulled through the cave by something, led by a strong beam of light that she could not see, guided by a path that was not there. She walked with the sense that she was approaching something, and as she emerged from between the darkness of the pillars, she saw what it was.

A rushing stream, fed by three cascading waterfalls that tumbled down from somewhere above in the vast cave, surrounded a raised, stone island, almost like a mote, crossed by a small, stone bridge. The surface of the island was flat and smooth, and undoubtedly not of nature's design, and in the centre of it stood a lone, black sarcophagus. Looming above that solitary coffin, and dominating the entire cavern, was a sculpture of some kind, a wall, carved with the same unusual portrait of a dragon's head that Tralana had seen in the ink drawing of the Dragonstone, and below it were an array of symbols. Letters, in an arcane alphabet. Words.

How Tralana knew they were words, she could not say. She just seemed to know, instinctively. Still drawn by that strange force she was only half certain was even there, Tralana crossed the little stone bridge, and made her way across the peculiar island towards the Wall of Words, wanting to see its carvings up close. The closer she drew to it, the more she seemed to feel that strong force in the air around her, thumping and pulsing like a heartbeat, like a chant. Her blood was growing hotter in her veins, and everything around her seemed to be glowing and becoming distorted, as she reached out and touched the Word Wall with her fingertips, brushing them across one word in particular…

"_Fus."_

Tralana felt a mixture of fright and ecstasy as she found herself saying the word out loud. A word in a language she didn't understand, a word whose meaning she couldn't even guess at, but which, _somehow, _she could read. She didn't know what she had just said, but she just _knew _that that was how the word sounded, as though she had heard someone say it before. _Fus._

There was a crack, and Tralana spun round, her hand on her dagger, to see the lid of the sarcophagus burst in to the air, and another one of the undead corpses began clambering out of it. This one, however, seemed larger than the others, and its armour was slightly more elaborate, with a menacingly horned helmet, and broad shoulder plates. No matter. Tralana clenched her fists, and summoned her flames spell, ready to strike the creature down…

"_**FUS, RO DAH!"**_

Blue light blinded Tralana, and she felt herself thrown off her feet by a great wave of simple, raw _force, _which sent her flying across the cavern, tumbling down in to the rocky stream, and leaving her with a gash across her cheekbone, and her knees scratched and bloody. She had only felt something like that once before, during the Imperial raid of Darkwater Crossing. That had been the great power Ulfric Stormcloak had used, the spell that had knocked her from the safety of her tree, and resulted in her being arrested and carted off to Helgen. Except it wasn't a spell. Or at least, it didn't work like any spell Tralana had ever heard of.

Shaking her head, Tralana swept a handful of wet hair from her eyes, and looked, blearily across at the undead creature. From its sarcophagus, the creature had drawn a jagged, black sword. And it was coming straight for her.

In a flash, Tralana got to her feet, and drew her dagger, leaping up on to the island to face the creature. The creature, however, suddenly threw a stream of frost at her, numbing Tralana's face, dusting her hair with ice crystals, and temporarily blinding her with the cold force. Had the spell hit her for any longer, ice may have found its way in to her throat and suffocated her, but Tralana dodged to the side, frantically rubbing the frost from her eyelids until she could see again. And she was just in time. The moment she looked up, she found herself just inches away from the creature, its sword held aloft in readiness to slice her in half. Almost without a thought, Tralana locked blades with the creature, and fired a jet of flames in to its face, catching its entire dry, mummified form alight. Tralana backed away, letting the flames do their work, when suddenly, they were extinguished by a burst of frost that seemed to come from within the creature itself – A Frost Cloak spell.

Swiftly drawing her bow, Tralana fired an arrow directly at the creatures head, then cursed to herself as she saw it effortlessly deflected by the creature's iron helmet. Not even Daedric arrows could pierce iron armour (at least not with a single shot.)

"_**FUS…"**_

With a jolt of terror, Tralana threw herself to one side.

"…_**RO DAH!"**_

As she rolled across the stone floor, Tralana glimpsed the top of the Word Wall, and suddenly, an idea came to her. She came out of her barrel roll, and lay sprawled on the ground, as though helpless, waiting for the undead creature to come for her. Raising its sword, the creature rushed for its victim with an evil growl, but suddenly found its face once again filled with flames. Tralana drew her dagger, and severed one of the creature's feet from her position on the floor, causing it to half collapse, and allowing her to leap to her feet. She gave the creature a hack with her dagger as she ran by it, and the blow left a scorched wound in the ancient armour, but was not a killing strike. Tralana knew that for that, she would have to weaken the creature, get past its armour. And she knew just how to do it.

While the now one-footed creature struggled with itself and reactivated its Frost Cloak, Tralana took advantage of its distraction by dashing behind the Word Wall, and swiftly climbing the rocks of the cavern walls, scrabbling and grabbing at footholds and clumps of ferns, until she was level with the top of the Wall, and leapt, nimbly across. She was now perched above the island, looking down like a bird of prey, and as the creature regained its bearings, it began hobbling about, searching for her. Tralana watched its movements carefully, balancing herself on her toes, and waiting for the right moment. The creature still had its Frost Cloak up, which meant this could only hurt, but stealth, ambush, and surprise were what she was best at, and this was the only way she could think of that would get past the creature's armour, other than half a dozen intense blows of her dagger, whilst avoiding blasts of frostbite and the end of a steel blade.

The creature paused in its pacing, and Tralana, dagger in hand, sprang from the top of the Word Wall like a sabre cat, landing on the creature's shoulders, and immediately feeling the cold of the Frost Cloak seep in to her bones and burn her skin. Relentless, she seized one of the horns of the creature's helmet with her free hand, pulled, and then buried her dagger up to the hilt in the newly exposed skull. The Frost Cloak died with the creature, and the limp, grey body fell to the ground, Tralana yanking her dagger free and leaping back in disgust. She doubled over, panting with tight, painful breathes, as the creature's sword fell from its hand, and slid across the stone floor with a clatter.

In pain and exhausted, Tralana dropped down on to the floor, and began rummaging through her satchel. Taking out a jar of Valerius's 'specially brewed Green Pact friendly frostbite balm' (a thoroughly painful mixture of beeswax, fire salts, powdered butterfly wings, and 'a dash of Daedra heart blood,') she clenched her teeth, and smeared generous amounts of the burning, deep orange cream on to her searingly cold wounds. Once her skin had started to warm and the pain had begun to ease, she heaved herself up and went over to the open sarcophagus, stepping over the hideous grey corpse as she went.

Peering over the rim, Tralana smiled, broadly at the sight of a familiar stone tablet, and also at the very welcome sight of a hidden burial urn, its elaborately carved lid cracked, and spilling a stream of glittering septims and jewels on to the bottom of the sarcophagus.

* * *

"Are you alright, ma'am?"

Lydia stopped in her pacing, and scowled at the landlady, whose question had been spoken less with a tone of concern, and more with a tone of irritation at Lydia's constant, anxious presence by the fire pit of the Sleeping Giant Inn, _without_ having ordered anything.

"I've said before, I don't _know _how many rooms I'll need!" Lydia snapped. "At least, not yet."

"With all respect, _ma'am,_" the landlady said again, with obvious distaste; "It's past midnight, and I can't just leave you skulking around in here until dawn. Guests will think we've got a burglar prowling in here…"

"What she's _trying _to say, my lady," the Nord barman said, anxiously, hurrying forwards, "is that maybe you should sit down, have a drink, rest up a bit? All this pacing isn't good for you."

The landlady tried to speak up again, but was silenced by a half-scolding, half-begging look from the barman. Usually, Lydia would have flown in to a rage at being disrespected in such a way, but she had more important things to think about now, and besides, the landlady was a Breton, and wouldn't have as much respect for her status as Riverwood's other Nord residents would. She was a foreigner who didn't know any better.

"Fine," Lydia sighed, heading over to a chair by the fire pit, and slumping down in to it. "I'll have some mead."

"Mead. Right away, my lady," the barman said with a nod, and quickly escorted the Breton landlady away.

Lydia gazed, absently in to the glowing embers, biting her nails and fidgeting in her chair as no dignified Nord warrior should. True, Tralana was a Wood Elf, but that had hardly seemed to matter once Lydia had seen the woman's skill. The Jarl was always trying to teach her to be more tolerant, even with his own hatred of the High Elves, and she had always tried to resist, been so unwelcoming to Irileth when she had been appointed housecarl, looked down her nose at the elven races, as she believed was her duty and her right as a Nord. But there was no getting past the fact that Tralana had saved her life, and with that in mind, Lydia was now starting to see what the Jarl had been trying to teach her. She only hoped that she would not have to report herself a failure to her Jarl for allowing the death of the champion she had sworn to protect…

The door to the Sleeping Giant Inn suddenly crashed open, and in strolled Tralana, noticeably bedraggled and shivering, but burdened with a stone urn under one arm, and a large, black sword fastened to her back.

"_Tralana!" _Lydia leapt up with relief, rushing past the Nord barman and almost making him spill the tankard of mead he was bringing to her. "Mara's mercy, I was worried you wouldn't make it!"

"Nord ruins may be a challenge in your eyes," Tralana said, casting off her snow-flecked cloak; "but they're _nothing _compared to finding yourself in a satyr camp in Valenwood."

"So…"

The two of them looked up to see the short, stocky, fair-haired Breton landlady, standing with her arms folded, while the barman watched, cautiously from a distance. The Breton woman's eyes were on Tralana.

"You're that visitor been poking around," she said, rather dryly.

"Ahem," Lydia attracted the landlady's attention with firm eyes. "May I remind you that _we _are on business from the Jarl? Two rooms, please."

The landlady pursed her lips, before taking the coin purse that Lydia presented her with, and heading back to the bar.

"The two on the left," she called, gruffly over her shoulder.

Lydia sneered a little after the landlady, then turned to Tralana.

"Did you find the Dragonstone?" she asked, eagerly looking over Tralana's person.

The Bosmer set down her coffer of treasure, before reaching in to her satchel, and pulling out the stone tablet.

"Right where Farengar said it would be," she said. "Of course, he failed to mention the walking corpse that was sleeping on top of it."

"Draugr," Lydia said with a grave nod. "Many of the ruins in Skyrim are plagued with them. They protect the ancient secrets and treasures as well as any trap. What's that you've got there?"

Tralana unfastened the ancient Nord sword from her back and gave it a swing, hacking a lump out of a nearby wooden chair, and leaving it covered in ice crystals.

"Hey!" the landlady barked from across the room. "You'll be paying for that damage!"

"This is the sword that Draugr had," Tralana said, passing the relic to Lydia. "I thought it might suit you. It seems to have a frost enchantment."

Lydia's brow creased as she took the sword, then her eyes slowly widened as she examined it closely.

"This…" she stammered. "This is _impossible!"_

"Not really," Tralana said with a sniff, running a critical finger along the edge of the blade. "I've seen stronger enchantments."

"No, no, not the enchantment," Lydia said, shaking her head. "This _sword…_This is Eduj!"

There was a pause in which Lydia simply looked in awe at the ancient blade, while Tralana frowned, and tried to see what had thrilled her companion so much.

"_Eduj?" _she pronounced, carefully. "And what is _Eduj?"_

"The sword of Kvenel the Tongue!" Lydia breathed. "Kvenel, the Tongue Chieftain, the legend of so many hymns. An ancient warrior and wielder of the Voice. This was _his _favoured sword in battle, the ice blade Eduj, forged in the same fire as the snow axe Okin." Lydia's explanation was suddenly cut off as a perplexed look crossed her face. "But…It should have been buried _with _Okin. That was the legend." She looked, questioningly at Tralana. "Did you find a war axe in the Barrow too, an enchanted one, just like this?"

Tralana shook her head, and Lydia was about to continue, when the Bosmer suddenly raised a warning hand to the shield-maiden's mouth, and cast a surreptitious look over to the bar. The Breton landlady was busying herself sweeping, but it was clear that her attention was focused, not on her task, but on what Tralana and Lydia were saying.

"Quiet now, Lydia," Tralana muttered. "We're carrying valuable treasures. Come on, we need to get some rest. We can start off early tomorrow morning to deliver the stone to Farengar."

"Yes, my lady," Lydia said, giving the sword another appreciative look. "So, you battled alone against a Draugr? That's something not many warriors have lived to say."

"It was several Draugr, actually," Tralana said, wincing at her still slightly smarting frostbite. "They are the second most horrifying creatures I've ever seen, next to that dragon from Helgen! I've never seen any necromancer's magic produce anything like them."

"It's not necromancy that makes them roam," Lydia said, picking up her tankard, and taking a swig of mead. "No one knows what it is. Some say they're souls cursed by the gods for their worship of the dragons long ago."

"_Worship _of the dragons?" Tralana said with raised eyebrows. Her own raised voice made her head ring, however, and she sighed, and rubbed her forehead, wearily. "Never mind. I can question you about ancient Nord history some other time. I need to sleep."

"Of course, my lady," Lydia said, heaving up the stone urn full of gold. "And in return, I will question you about the forests of Valenwood."

"Oh?" Tralana said, glancing over her shoulder as she made for her room. "And what is it you'd like to know?"

"What on Nirn is a hippogriff?"

* * *

Tralana's eyes fluttered open, and she almost groaned when she saw that her room was still cloaked by the shadows of the night. But as she shut her eyes again, longing for sleep, she realised that, tired as she was, she could not have woken up of her own accord. _Something _had woken her. And, sure enough, as she listened, Tralana heard a light footstep treading at the foot of her bed, followed by the sound of some sort of cloth being brushed against a rough surface. Beneath her pillow, Tralana's hand clenched around the hilt of her dagger, where it always rested while she slept (when she _had _a pillow, that was. Hunting trips in Valenwood and months of sleeping outdoors had even trained Tralana to be able to sleep sitting up, with her dagger loosely held ready in hand.)

The intruder then made a small movement closer to Tralana's bed, and she instantly sat up, her dagger drawn and pointing in to the darkness. The short, stocky figure that stood in the room froze, and Tralana blinked in confusion.

"Pardon me, ma'am," the landlady said, setting down the Dragonstone, which she appeared to be dusting with a handkerchief. "I know it's not my place, but I was just curious about the treasures you'd brought back from Bleak Falls Barrow."

Tralana's eyes narrowed, however, and she lowered her dagger only a fraction.

"Did you take anything?" she demanded.

"Of course not!" the Breton woman said, as though scolding a silly suggestion made by a child, but then carefully softened her tone. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I wasn't trying to steal anything. It's all here, exactly where you left it, and you can forget about having to pay for that broken chair. Sorry if I startled you."

With a nod, the landlady then quietly left the room.

Tralana immediately swung her legs out of bed, grabbed her key, and locked the door after the landlady, before quickly checking over her few belongings. She always counted the number of arrows she had in her quiver, and the gold in the urn looked undisturbed. The fastening on her satchel was even still in place, with the golden claw safe inside. The only thing the woman seemed to have touched was the Dragonstone. Giving the stone tablet a thorough examination to make sure it was undamaged, Tralana then stowed it out of sight under her bed, and placed her dagger back under her pillow. Then, as an afterthought, she unravelled a length of thread from the old, green woollen dress Gerdur had given her, and knotted one end of it around the door handle, whilst trapping the other end between the doors of the nearby wardrobe. It would not stop anyone from opening the door, but that was the point. Tralana was certain that the landlady would have her own key to this room, and if she came back at any time during the night whilst Tralana was asleep, Tralana would know in the morning due to the end of the string having been pulled from between the wardrobe doors by the force of the opening door.

Laying back down on her front on the fur blankets of her bed, Tralana slid her hand beneath her pillow, her fingers brushing the cool, comforting surface of the hilt of her Daedric dagger. As soon as she opened her eyes in the morning, she and Lydia would depart for Dragonsreach.


	9. Dragonborn

**Dragonborn**

Breakfast at the Sleeping Giant Inn passed by in a heavy, suspicious silence, before Tralana ushered Lydia outside, sending her to untether the horses while she returned the golden claw to Lucan Valerius. The grateful shopkeeper was true to his word, and happily handed over his promised 300 septims, almost gushing over the beautiful claw as he placed it, proudly on his counter. With barely a look over her shoulder, Tralana then mounted Allie (her saddlebag now bulging with the looted gold and jewels from Bleak Falls Barrow,) and flicked her reins, cantering over the bridge and out of Riverwood, with the guards saluting her and Lydia as they passed. The village was thankfully out of sight by the time Tralana lost control of her dignified canter and fell from the saddle, but Lydia compensated for the lack of witnesses by laughing as heartily as a full, drunken tavern rabble. They kept up a steady trot from then on, until they reached Whiterun.

When they entered the banquet hall of Dragonsreach, however, they found the Jarl absent from his throne, and the banquet tables deserted.

"Strange," Lydia said with a frown. "Come on, we'll take the stone directly to Farengar. He'll be in that little laboratory of his."

Sure enough, they found the court mage shut up in his dark workroom, busily mixing herbs in a mortar and pestle at his alchemy station, which filled the room with new, repugnant smells that the wizard barely seemed to notice.

"Yes, yes, just a moment," he replied to the sound of their approaching footsteps. "This is a very volatile mixture. One slight miscalculation could…"

He suddenly caught sight of Tralana and Lydia through the dim light and smoke wreaths of the room, and his usually stoic face broke in to an elated grin.

"Ah!" he cried, excitedly, knocking the mortar and pestle off the alchemy station, where its mixture exploded with a violent burst of venom-green smoke as it hit the floor. "The Jarl's protégé, back from Bleak Falls Barrow! You didn't die, it seems."

Tralana rolled her eyes, and reached her hand back towards Lydia, who removed the Dragonstone from her satchel, and placed it in Tralana's hand.

"The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow," Farengar said, triumphantly, almost as though he'd retrieved the stone himself. "It seems you are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way."

"Thank you for your most flattering compliment," Tralana sniffed, handing him the stone. "May I see the Jarl?"

"I have a fellow researcher of dragons who will be most interested in this," Farengar mused to himself, completely ignoring Tralana's request. "We'd discovered the names of some of the ancient Dragon Priests from a modern copy of a much older text, possibly predating the First Era, all the way back to just after the Dragon War. But to have the locations of the dragon burial sites…!"

"I'm sure the Jarl will want to know if I've done you such a great service," Tralana said, testily. "If we could see him? I assume he'll have some sort of reward waiting for me…?"

Farengar looked up from his intense studying of the Dragonstone.

"Hm? Oh, yes. You'll have to see the Jarl about that. Maybe his Steward, Proventus Avenicci. I'm sure one of them will pay you appropriately."

Tralana's nostrils flared as she almost growled in frustration, but Lydia quickly stepped forward.

"Farengar, where _is _the Jarl? I know that your research is important, but we can't be kept waiting here all day! The Jarl will want to hear of the success of our quest."

The mage had begun to turn towards his arcane enchanter, and looked incredibly irritated by the fact that Lydia and Tralana were still pestering him.

"Irileth called him to discuss some apparently urgent matter," he said, dismissively. "Likely more talk of the on-going hostilities with the Stormcloaks."

"_Farengar!"_

As if on cue, the doors of the room suddenly crashed open, revealing Irileth, her dark brow heavy and set like stone in a fierce look of determination, with a guard standing by her side.

"Farengar, you need to come at once! A dragon's been sighted nearby! _You,_" her blood red eyes fell on Tralana, "should come too."

A heavy weight dropped in to Tralana's stomach, and even Lydia gasped a little. Farengar, on the other hand, seemed delighted.

"A dragon!" he cried, clapping his hands together, enthusiastically. "How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?"

"I'd take this a bit more seriously, if I were you," Irileth said, darkly, with a raised eyebrow. "If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun, I don't know if we can stop it."

"We'll be fine, I'm sure," Farengar said, absentmindedly, as he darted about the room, gathering up an armful of books, scrolls, inkpots and quills. "Provided it's left to its own devices and goes unprovoked, of course. Still, the chance to see a living dragon up close could be tremendously valuable..."

With a frustrated sigh, Irileth gestured for Tralana and Lydia to follow, and the three of them hurried from Farengar's laboratory with the over encumbered court mage in a hot but clumsy pursuit, assisted by the nervous guard. Jarl Balgruuf was waiting, patiently for them in a small room behind the banquet hall, his face grim but calm. Irileth immediately presented the guard before him.

"So, Irileth tells me you came from the western watchtower?" the Jarl began slowly, and it was evident that he wished to absorb all the information he could about the matter.

The guard quickly saluted the Jarl, but the only sounds that came from him were tired rasps, as he began panting, anxiously behind his helmet.

"Tell him what you told me," Irileth prompted, her voice authoritive, but this time not overly harsh. "About the dragon."

"Yes, Housecarl," the guard responded, and his breathing became a little quieter and more steady as he pulled himself together. "Yes, the dragon…That's right. We saw it coming from the south. It was fast. Faster than anything I've ever seen."

"Was it a black dragon?" Tralana asked him. "Coal black, with burning red eyes?"

Tralana could see Irileth glaring at her from behind the guard, but she steadfastly ignored the Dark Elf's angry gaze. She needed to know.

"I don't rightly know," the guard said, clearly a little confused by the question. "I didn't get a good look at the thing. All I know is that it was a dragon. Big and scaly, with wings that darkened the sky. Just like they were described in the stories."

"What did it do?" Jarl Balgruuf asked, urgently. "Is it attacking the watchtower?"

"No, my lord. It was just circling overhead when I left. I never ran so fast in my life. I thought it would come after me, for sure."

There was a loud thump and a clatter, and the small gathering turned to see Farengar dumping his pile of books on to the nearby table, as he rapidly unfurled a scroll and dipped his quill in some ink, hastily scrawling down everything the guard had said.

"Good work, son," Jarl Balgruuf said, turning back to the guard. "We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it."

"If you wouldn't mind," Farengar said, grabbing a couple of books, and continuing with his notes as he followed the dismissed guard; "I'd very much like to talk more with you about this dragon…"

Irileth spat something in Dunmeris as the mage and the guard disappeared down the steps that led back in to the banquet hall.

"Now, Irileth," Jarl Balgruuf said, sternly; "Farengar is only doing his duty to try and protect us from the dragons. We need to be more prepared against them, now that we know the threat is real. You'd better get some guardsmen and head down to the western watchtower, at once."

"I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate," Irileth said with a nod.

"Good," the Jarl smiled, warmly at his housecarl. "Don't fail me."

"My Jarl," Lydia said suddenly, stepping forward. "I'd like to volunteer as one of the party to investigate the western watchtower."

Tralana whipped round, stunned, but nobody in the room looked more stunned than Irileth.

"You've done enough, Lydia," the Jarl said, placing a hand on the shield-maiden's shoulder. "You've proven yourself twice over in bringing our friend here safely back from Bleak Falls Barrow."

Lydia looked at Tralana with a grateful smile that almost made the Bosmer reel back in surprise.

"It was her who brought _me _back safely, my Jarl," Lydia said, solemnly. "I made an oath before I left to serve her, and as I see it, that oath still stands. I will protect her and all she owns with my life, which means I cannot allow that beast to attack Whiterun while she is still within its walls."

Tralana had never imagined Irileth's usually so firm and unfazed expression could contort so much in to a look of pure astonishment. Jarl Balgruuf, on the other hand, was smiling.

"I can see you've learned much," he muttered, before turning to face Tralana. "There's no time to stand on ceremony, my friend. I need your help again."

"I expected nothing less, my Jarl," Tralana said, but there was no bitterness in her heart now. Lydia had pledged her life so passionately to protect her against this dragon, that there was simply no question in Tralana's mind that she would return the favour. If nothing else, she would certainly defend Whiterun from suffering the same fate as Helgen.

Jarl Balgruuf nodded and smiled, gratefully at the look he saw in the Bosmer's dark eyes.

"I want you to go with Irileth and Lydia and help them fight this dragon," he said. "You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here. But I haven't forgotten the service you did for me in retrieving the Dragonstone for Farengar. And for protecting one of my most prized warriors." He cast a look to Lydia, and Tralana saw the young Nord shield-maiden's eyes shining with pride. "As a token of my esteem, I've instructed Avenicci to have a sword commissioned for you from Eorland Grey-Mane at Jorrvaskr. Eorland is the best blacksmith in all of Skyrim. The sword that he'll craft you in the fires of the Skyforge will be a good companion to you, I swear it." Here, he patted his own handsome steel sword that he wore at his side.

Tralana gave a solemn bow, feeling that no one in all of Tamriel deserved it more than Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.

"Thank you, my lord."

"Let's go," Irileth said, impatiently, tightening the belt that held her own steel sword. "Every second we wait could allow that dragon to cover more ground towards Whiterun."

"One last thing, Irileth," Jarl Balgruuf's commanding voice stopped the Dark Elf in her tracks. "This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to _know _what we're dealing with."

His words were practical, but the Jarl's eyes were deeply emotional as he looked at his housecarl, whose lips twitched in a small, knowing smile.

"Don't worry, my lord," she said, bowing her head. "I'm the very soul of caution."

And with a beckoning wave of Irileth's hand, the three warriors rushed from Dragonsreach.

* * *

The sky above the plains outside Whiterun was red. Blood red. A worrying omen from Kynareth, Tralana thought, as she, Irileth, Lydia, and a band of Whiterun guards made their way at a frantic pace through yellow grasses and over jagged boulders towards the western watchtower. Or, as they soon found out, what was left of it. The party sheltered behind a cluster of large, moss dappled rocks, while Irileth surveyed the destruction before them – A flaming pile of stone rubble, the ground surrounding it blackened and smoking, and the whole scene as quiet as the grave.

"No sign of any dragon right now," Irileth said, looking up in to the gold-tinted clouds. "But it sure looks like he's been here."

"Mara's mercy," Lydia gasped under her breath.

"Azura, be kind," Tralana heard Irileth mutter. The Dunmer then resolutely turned to the assembled team. "I know it looks bad, but we've got to figure out what happened. And if that dragon is still skulking around somewhere…"

She left the sentence hanging, grimly, and Tralana's gaze moved to the summit of the looming mountain, it's snow-capped top glowing orange in the fading dusk light. Her mind's eye was haunted by the image of that gigantic black dragon from Helgen, swooping over the mountain top and bearing down on the helpless settlement.

"Spread out," Irileth ordered, drawing her sword, and making for the ruined tower. "Look for survivors. We need to know what we're dealing with."

As the huddle of guards fanned out, Tralana drew her bow, while Lydia unsheathed Eduj, and the two of them followed in Irileth's tracks at a creeping run, keeping low to the ground. Lydia charged ahead while Tralana kept to her back, an arrow notched and pointing towards the sky.

"What did it have to gain in laying waste to the tower?" Lydia whispered, crouching near the half collapsed entrance to the devastated watchtower.

"Destruction seems to come naturally to these things," Tralana said, keeping her bow trained on the slowly drifting clouds. "The one at Helgen actually made the skies open, it rained down fire on a town that just happened to be in its way."

"They _did _once rule all of Skyrim," Lydia said. "In the time before the Dragon War, the Nordic people worshipped the dragons as gods. They eventually took control of our land, had their Dragon Priests rule over us as monstrous kings."

"They crave domination," Tralana observed, thoughtfully, casting a look down at the ashen earth, and shifting some of it with her boot. Lydia gave a tut of laughter, and Tralana looked up with a frown to see the Nord's twisted smile.

"Rather like you," she said.

Tralana's mouth fell open, and she fixed the shield-maiden with a fiery glare, causing Lydia to launch in to a quick explanation.

"Ever since you came to Dragonsreach, you've been itching to leave," she said. "I've never seen anyone set out on a quest so reluctantly, and when we returned the stone to Farengar, all you seemed to want was to collect your reward and go. But in Bleak Falls Barrow, you were different. You surged ahead like a true warrior, there was the thrill of battle and the pursuit of glory in your eyes. Once you'd found your coffer of gold in the Barrow, you needn't have come back at all. You could have gone anywhere. But you fulfilled your mission to the Jarl, even though you'd seemed to resent being handed it, because it was a challenge that you simply had to complete. You'll never fail or abandon a quest once it's given to you, will you?"

Tralana snorted, and nudged Lydia forwards, up the broken stone slope towards the doorway of the half-standing tower. It wasn't _honour _or a ridiculous penchant for heroics that had compelled her to keep Ralof from death, to protect him at the request of Gerdur, to plunder the Dragonstone from Bleak Falls Barrow for Farengar and Jarl Balgruuf, and to aid Lydia and Irileth in fighting the dragon back from Whiterun. It was…

Tralana paused. What was it? Mercy? Gratitude? There were times when she had thought those two things had been completely wiped from her character, and she was now glad to see that they were not. But now that she thought about it, why _hadn't _she been able to simply dismiss Farengar's mission for the Dragonstone when she had been so eager to flee the company of these humans? Abandoning Ralof in the caves under Helgen and refusing to bring him home safely to Gerdur would have been heartless, but aiding Jarl Balgruuf was not something plain morality had required her to do. And yet she had simply felt bound to do it. Once Balgruuf had asked, once the offer had been made, it was taken up, and not simply for the want of reward. The gold she had found in Bleak Falls Barrow was enough to last her months. Years, if she was careful. Why, then, had she not simply fled with her treasure, left to live her own life away from everyone else, as she had been saying from the beginning that she would do, but instead returned to Lydia and Dragonsreach as promised, and now stood before a ruined tower, ready to face her _second _dragon?

A spark of worry ignited in Tralana's mind as she felt the way her heart was hammering, crouched amongst the hideous aftermath of a dragon attack, her eyes alert and on the sky. This was the way she had felt raiding Bleak Falls Barrow with Lydia. It had given her a sense of something she had not felt in years. Vitality. She'd felt alive, active, full of purpose, and Tralana just couldn't bear to carry on in such a hearty way with her life after everything that had happened…_before_. It made her feel guilty. No, she would not be tempted by the allure of adventure. Her fate was to simply scrape by somewhere in a hut in a forest, barely alive at all, bothering and bothered by no one, and living out her years until she was finally snuffed out and forgotten, reunited at last with her family. She didn't deserve to live again…

With a deafening roar, a burned and bedraggled man in the cuirass of a Whiterun guard suddenly came hurtling out of the broken tower doorway, brandishing a huge, iron battle axe above his head. Lydia deflected the hefty swing with a sideways bash of her shield, sending the head of the axe bearing down with a crack on to the crumbling, scorched stone. The wide-eyed guardsman stared at Lydia in horror.

"By the gods!" he gasped, almost grovelling on his knees. "I'm so sorry, my lady – !"

"Guardsman!" Irileth called from the bottom of the ruin, rushing up to meet Tralana, Lydia, and the terrified guard. "What happened here? Report!"

"_No! Get back!" _Tralana and Lydia were almost staggered as the guard rushed past them, beckoning to Irileth to stay away. "It's still here somewhere! Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!"

The scattered members of the Whiterun guard all suddenly froze, rooted to the spot, as a chilling noise echoed in the sky above them. A noise that Tralana knew all too well.

"Kynareth save us!" the half-crazed guard seized hold of his axe, and crouched low to the ground. "Here he comes again!"

Tralana slowly stood and stared in awe as the cry of the distant dragon grew in volume, and a gigantic, winged shape glided over the sunlit crest of the overlooking mountain. It was vast, but, she decided, distinctly smaller than the dragon she had seen at Helgen, and as it bore down through the clouds, she saw that its scales were deep green in colour.

"Here he comes!" Irileth yelled to her company. "Find cover, and make every arrow count!"

The bellow of a war horn was the last thing Tralana heard before chaos erupted. A storm of arrows flew through the air, only to be incinerated by a gust of raging fire that caught the grass around the party, forcing them up on to boulders and the remains of the tower to avoid the flames. Fire still poured down from the sky, however, and the whole scene, burning with searing hot reds and hues of orange from both the breath of the dragon and the dying light of the sun, seemed like a fiery lake in the realm of the Deadlands. A scream ripped through the air, and the curtain of flames parted for only a moment to allow Tralana to see one of the Whiterun guards snatched up by the low-flying dragon.

"Keep firing!" Irileth's voice called from somewhere.

It took Tralana a moment to realise that Lydia was no longer by her side. Leaping over the stone wall, and landing, deftly on the scorched ground, she glanced about and spotted her sheltering a short distance away beneath her shield, a guard stood above her, firing arrows. The dragon came in for another low-flying pass, and Tralana didn't think twice before firing, her arrow striking the beast just below its chin. Lydia, to Tralana's amazement, stood up as the dragon swooped overhead, swinging Eduj at the creature's wing, but was knocked down by the great whoosh of air that followed in the dragon's wake. Tralana glared as it curved back up in to the sky. It would take them days of firing arrows before they brought that creature down! What they needed was for it to land at least, so that they could have a chance of hitting it with their swords…

An idea came to Tralana as she saw the dragon circling directly above the ruined tower. The structure had not been completely demolished, and there was a chance that the spiral staircase that led to its roof was still partially intact. Tralana dashed for the broken slope that led up to the tower doorway, but before she could even get close, she suddenly collided with a large, burly form. It was the lone surviving guard from the watchtower. Screaming with the utter abandon of panic, the guard fled, wildly across the burning grassland, but had not even reached the nearby road before he was completely engulfed in a jet of flame. The dragon was absolutely relentless, and coming in for another close attack. Tralana reached back to draw her bow, and her heart suddenly leapt in to her mouth as her fingers closed around empty air. Her collision with the guard had knocked her bow lose, and sent it flying to land in the grass several feet away. With the dragon closing in like a hawk on its prey, there was only one thing Tralana could do…

Run.

Turning on her heel, Tralana sprinted for her bow, the wing-beats of the dragon pounding on the air behind her, so close that she could smell the brimstone breath of the creature pouring over her like a thick, deathly cloud. There was a strange, loud rattling, like an intake of breath, and just as Tralana made to lunge for where her bow lay on the ground, a gust of flames shot out. Tralana was airborne as the river of fire rushed towards her, stretching out and reaching for her weapon, but her fists suddenly clenched in agony, and she let out a blood-curdling screech, as a few licks of flame poured over the right side of her face, and lashed at the back and side of her neck, singeing her hair. She had luckily fallen out of reach of the full burst of flame, but the burn to her face sizzled and popped, painfully, and the back of her leather armour was hot and blackened.

Suddenly, a great flash of blue lightning split the scene. The dragon roared in fury, soaring upwards, and Tralana was dragged beneath the feeble shelter of a large, broken tree. A cocoon of golden light spread over her face, soothing the pain, and bringing back the sight in her right eye, and Tralana felt her scarred skin smoothing out and growing less tender.

"_Go!"_ Irileth's voice commanded, as Tralana's bow was thrust in to her hands.

Tralana looked up to see the housecarl standing above her, hands raised, and unleashing a tempest of lightning in to the darkening sky. She scrambled out of range as the enraged dragon roared down another blast of intense fire at Irileth, completely engulfing her, and yet the Dark Elf's black figure stood firm! As the flames retreated, Tralana saw Irileth's skin shimmering with a jagged blue light, like the reflections cast by the facets of a sapphire. An Ironflesh Spell.

Seizing her chance, Tralana raced for the door of the tower, bow in hand, and charged up the broken spiral staircase, having to crawl through the scarce gaps left between the fallen stones as she climbed closer to the top, and finally kicked her way through the trap door. The roof of the tower was now at a dangerous angle, but Tralana wedged herself between the battlements, and lined up her bow. The dragon was retreating from Irileth's lightning storm, and Tralana had the chance to look the creature full in its piercing yellow eye, before she released her bowstring. The slit, black pupil was her bullseye.

As the arrow hit its mark, the dragon roared, shaking its head in fury, and as Tralana glimpsed the other eye, she swiftly fired again, completely blinding the dragon. Lydia, Irileth, and the Whiterun guards scattered below, as the dragon's wings faltered, making it plummet from the sky like a bird struck with a stone. It fell until it landed with a thunderous noise that shook the ground. Fell right on top of the broken tree under which Irileth had sheltered Tralana, the splintered wood impaling it like a spear, and killing it instantly. Tralana stood up, fastening her bow to her back.

Right on the mark.

There was a great amount of cheering, but a greater amount of wide-eyed, open-mouthed staring, as Tralana emerged from the tower doorway, still bleeding from where the dragon had scorched her with fire, but less so thanks to Irileth's healing hands spell.

Speaking of Irileth, the Dunmer ran over to Tralana with an astonished look in her red eyes, frequently glancing back at the dead dragon.

"How did you know that would work?" she demanded.

Tralana breathed, heavily, wiping the sweat, soot, and blood from her brow, and gave a slow shrug.

"It works on hydra," she said.

Irileth frowned for a moment, and looked like she was about to say something, but instead simply shook her head, and approached Lydia and the assembled guards.

"Damned good shooting, boys! Now, let's make sure that overgrown lizard is really dead."

There seemed little doubt as they approached the battered and bloodied corpse slumped over the crushed tree, but even so, each member of the party approached the dragon with caution, some keeping their hands still firmly clutching at the hilt of their blade. Tralana leaned in with curiosity, still somehow in awe of the creature that had now almost killed her twice.

"Look at that!" one of the guards cried out, suddenly.

The group as one took a hasty step back. All except for Tralana, who felt strangely rigid, unable to move. Something was happening to the dead dragon.

Its bloodied, green scales began to erupt with shimmering, golden sparks, flying like torn gold leaf in the breeze, and leaping up like the sparks from a roaring fire. A delicate, white aura surrounded its form, like sunlight on water, and there were gasps of fright and wonder as it seemed like the same aura was also surrounding _Tralana._ A river of light suddenly streamed out of the dead dragon, glowing in a spectrum of colours – brilliant white and burning gold, vivid blue and scarlet red, all strangely blended together – and flowed in a fierce current straight in to Tralana's body, illuminating her like a star. Tralana's vision was criss-crossed with ribbons of light, but the strangest thing was happening _inside _of her. Inside her head.

She could see memories. Memories that were not her own. Wars, emperors, Aedra and Daedra – A vast flood of things that swept through her mind, thousands of years passing by mostly too fast for her to really see, but she felt as though it was building up to something, to an ultimate _understanding. _An understanding of power and of struggle, of balance and of lack of it. Of the thing that _threw balance off. _Mirmulnir (for that was the dragon's name, she could see it in her mind,) was teaching her something. And that thing, that simple, raw concept that Tralana could feel dawning on her like the rising of the sun, could only be expressed in one word…

"_**FUS!"**_

A tidal wave of blue light was sent rippling through the air. Grass blew back and leaves flew at the sound of Tralana's voice, as though a gust of wind had suddenly shot past. Tralana froze at the sensation that had just erupted out of her. It was not just normal shouting, it was _power_, it was _force. _It was the word that she had seen on the Wall in Bleak Falls Barrow. Now, she understood what it meant.

Turning, slowly around, Tralana saw Lydia, Irileth, and the guardsmen all regarding her in shocked silence. Several long moments passed before one of the guards finally spoke up.

"I can't believe it!" he gasped. "You're…_Dragonborn!"_


	10. Gods and Legends

**Gods and Legends**

"It's the power of old!" the guard continued to yell in amazement, while his comrades whispered in awe around him. "The Voice of the Dragonborn!"

Irileth looked, questioningly back and forth, clearly searching for something to say that would help her regain control of her men. In the heat of the wild confusion, it could even be said that the merest hint of _panic _had made its way on to her usually cold and stoic features. Lydia, on the other hand, was just as unresponsive as Tralana, staring with large, filmy eyes, filled with the mists of deep wonder. The young Nord woman's eyes would never be the same again, for they had seen the manifestation of a legend, a power gifted from the gods, the raw light of a soul coursing through the air. When mortal eyes look upon such things, their appearance is forever marked and changed.

"What…?"

The babble of the guards was silenced in an instant by the mumbled word from Tralana, and they all watched, waiting for her to continue. Tralana shook her head, blearily, and cleared her throat, feeling herself struggling to grasp the Tamrielic language, even though she had known it nearly all her life. It was as though that single word of the unknown language she had read on the Word Wall and somehow learned from the dragon had completely filled her mind, and taken over her entire vocabulary.

"What…do you mean…Dragonborn?" she stumbled.

Irileth drew close at this, listening, intently, and her face assumed its usual cast of deep thoughtfulness and hard suspicion. The guard, meanwhile (a short, strongly built Nord with a prominent, dark moustache, and wearing a scaled helmet,) ploughed on, eagerly with what he had to say, while his comrades gathered round the dazed Bosmer in curiosity;

"In the very oldest tales, back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons, and steal their power. That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed the dragon's power?"

The tensely watching guards looked to Tralana for an answer. Tralana was still struggling to focus on anything other than the great word that filled her head, echoing in every corner of her mind.

"I…don't know what happened to me," she said, slowly and carefully.

"Well, you can Shout now," the guard pressed. "You couldn't before, right? Almost no one in Skyrim can, and certainly not an outsider. That can only mean one thing. You _must_ be Dragonborn…"

"Hold on a minute!" another one of the guards called out suddenly. "Dragonborn? Her? What are you talking about, Kol?"

"My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn," the heavily moustached guard was almost trembling with excitement. "Those born with the Dragon Blood in them, like old Tiber Septim himself."

"Tiber Septim was _an Emperor,_" the second guard, a much younger man, pointed out, giving Tralana a sideways glare. "The Dragonborns were always the true Emperors of Tamriel. You're saying that this…puny elf…?"

The remark brought Tralana back from the strange edge of unreality that she was lingering in, but she was beaten to her sharp retort by the guard Kol.

"That 'puny elf' just brought down a dragon, and used an ancient power that no one but Ulfric Stormcloak has mastered in years!" Kol said, hotly. "And there were Dragonborns long before there were Emperors, you know."

"Doesn't exactly fill me with confidence," the younger guard sniffed, placing a fist on his hip as he turned fully to face Tralana. "Like you say, no one but Ulfric Stormcloak has wielded the Voice in the manner of the ancient Tongues for centuries, and look how _he's _used it…"

"_Enough!"_

The whole company started, violently at the sound of Lydia's furious shriek, and Tralana looked round to see the shield-maiden almost shaking with anger, as she barged her way through the ring of guards that surrounded the Bosmer to stand, protectively by her side, glowering the impudent younger guard in to a shamed silence, and also shooting a warning look to the overenthusiastic Kol, silently telling him not to continue. The ring of guards shuffled back, mumbling apologies, but there were clearly a few who did not want to let the matter go.

"What do you say, Irileth?" one of them asked, turning to the housecarl. "You're being awfully quiet."

"Come on, Irileth, tell us," another urged. "Do _you _believe in this Dragonborn business?"

Through the dim twilight, Tralana saw Irileth's piercing, silent eyes looking at her, staring, studying, vivid and blood red as the moons when the summer raged particularly hot. They reminded her for a moment of the eyes of that huge black dragon from Helgen, and she was forced to repress a shudder. Irileth's eyes narrowed.

"Hmph," was her response. "Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about." Tralana could have sworn she saw the Dunmer exchange the briefest of glances with Lydia, before she continued; "Here's a dead dragon, and that's something I definitely understand. Now we _know _we can kill them. But I don't need some mythical 'Dragonborn'! Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me."

"You wouldn't understand, Housecarl," a clear believer of the situation piped up. "You ain't a Nord."

The outspoken guard was silenced in a moment, however, by a single poisonous look from Irileth.

"I've been all across Tamriel!" the Dunmer said in outrage. "I've seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this! I'd advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm over tales and legends!"

The guards muttered their compliance, but it was obvious that they were not all of them fully convinced.

Tralana, meanwhile, put a hand to her bleeding face, and shut her eyes, tightly against the scene. She didn't have any idea what they were all talking about, and was sure that she'd never heard the term 'Dragonborn' before. Why, then, did it sound so familiar? Why, when she cast her thoughts back in to her memories, could she now fleetingly glimpse images of events that she was sure she had never been present at, and why did she now feel in her mind so much _older, _with deep knowledge that only an ancient being – as ancient as a Divine – could know? Why did her blood feel like fire in her veins?

Lydia caught Tralana as she staggered, and almost cried out when she felt the alarmingly high temperature of the Bosmer.

"Irileth, we need to get her to a healer!" Lydia said, desperately. "Your healing spell wasn't enough, she needs the care of Kynareth!"

"Everyone report back to Whiterun!" Irileth ordered, and the guards scrambled to attention. "Return to Dragonsreach and await further instructions from myself and the Jarl regarding the dragon menace. You, assist Lady Lydia in taking this hero of Whiterun to the Temple of Kynareth. On the double!"

The guard Kol rushed forward to help Lydia support the weakened Tralana as the party made their way back to Whiterun with burning torches held aloft, the inky hues of night having now firmly settled in around them.

"That was Shouting, what you did back there," Kol whispered in Tralana's ear as she half stumbled and was half dragged between him and Lydia. "Must have been. You really _are _Dragonborn!"

Tralana was fighting against the crowding shadows of unconsciousness, and only just heard him. That word, Dragonborn, kept igniting a painful fire in her head. It _must _have meant something important. But her knowledge was broken and incomplete, something deep within her said. The full knowledge of a _Dovah_ so suddenly given could tear the fabric of a mortal body asunder, even one that coursed with _Dovah Sos, _and so all that was Mirmulnir was dying and being consumed within her, until only one fragment of his _Thu'um _would remain, his _Fus, _his _Force…_

Suddenly, the sky began to shake. Tralana could see the stars trembling at the chorus of booming, unified Voices that startled the whole of the Whiterun guard and Lydia and Irileth in to stopping, but then she realised that the sight was only an illusion from where she stood on Nirn. It was really the ground that shook, not the sky. Kyne, after all, would not tremble at mortals wielding the power She Herself had granted them so long ago, especially when the _Thu'ums _that could now be heard were those of Her sworn devotees.

"_**DOV, AH, KIIN!"**_the call echoed through the still night air.

Tralana then finally succumbed to the creeping blackness, and promptly forgot all the unusual thoughts that had just gone through her head.

* * *

Tralana softly awoke from her deep sleep (which had remained strangely black and undisturbed by her usual dream,) to the smell of lavender and mountain flower incense, and the peaceful ringing of chimes. The first thing that she saw was the dancing ribbons of reflected light on the ceiling, and she glanced around to find herself lying on a marble bed, back in the Temple of Kynareth. A greenish flicker of aurora could be glimpsed through the small Temple windows, so it was still night, and late by the looks of it, as the other sick or injured souls that lay around Tralana were all fast asleep. One armoured figure, however, paced up and down, anxiously on the other side of the room.

"Lydia?" Tralana blinked.

The Nord shield-maiden looked up with a radiant smile, and immediately rushed over to where Tralana lay, carelessly knocking over and smashing a glazed vase in her haste.

"My lady!" Lydia cried, completely oblivious to the irritated Temple charges who were waking up around her. "Kynareth has smiled on you!"

A door opened, and a very flustered looking Danica Pure-Spring came storming out of her room to investigate the commotion.

"What's going on in here?" she demanded, quickly hurrying around from bed to bed to try and settle her charges again. "Oh, the hero of the hold. You're awake." Danica's words were accompanied by a pleased and rather proud smile as she looked at Tralana.

"I don't want to be called a hero ever again," Tralana groaned, reaching a hand up to her face, now free of pain, but finding it smothered in a very cold and rather disgusting mixture of powdered Ice Wraith teeth and what seemed to be the pale green yoke of a Rock Warbler egg.

"But you fought with such honour!" Lydia enthused, looking surprised at Tralana's words. "Like the heroes of old!"

"Like a Dragonborn?" Tralana guessed, sitting up. "Whatever that is."

"_Dragonborn?"_

The echoed remark came from Danica, who moved towards the elf and the shield-maiden in shock, but was put off by Lydia redirecting her back towards her charges.

"It's nothing," Lydia insisted, smiling, benignly at Danica. "I'm sorry for the mess I caused, Priestess. You needn't worry about the Jarl's aid, I'll attend to her myself."

"As you wish, my lady."

While Danica stooped to clean up the remnants of the shattered vase, Lydia knelt close to Tralana's bedside, and her face took on a grave expression, enhanced by the greater maturity that could now be seen in her blue eyes.

"There is so much to tell you," she whispered.

"Starting with what a Dragonborn is, I imagine," Tralana said, keeping her own voice low as well, as it was clear that, for whatever reason, Lydia did not want Danica to overhear them.

Lydia looked vaguely incredulous at Tralana's words.

"Surely you know about the pact between Akatosh and Empress Alessia?" she hissed. "About the Divine covenant with the Imperial Emperors who first took their seat in Cyrodiil, after the slave rebellion against the Heartland High Elves?"

"The Ayleids, you mean? I know about them," Tralana said with a bewildered frown, wondering what such distant history had to do with any of this. "The last of them were supposed to have fled in to Valenwood after the Imperial slaves drove them out. There were…legends whispered about their still hiding somewhere in the forests, worshipping the Daedra and performing their dark magic. Ghost stories, really."

"Alessia was the matron of the Imperial Emperors, some say of the entire Imperial race," Lydia breathed, clearly calling up the tale from memories of when she had first heard it in wonder as a child. "She was anointed by Akatosh with His blood, a gift which had only been given before to a few very ancient Nordic kings, whose names are now forgotten. She is the first Dragonborn that we remember, and the first human Empress, who freed the human slaves from the tyranny of the Heartland High Elves, and forged an Empire out of Cyrodiil. She united all of Tamriel in worship of the true Eight Divines, a merging of the two ancient pantheons of the elves and the Nords."

"That was very clever of a conquering Empress," Tralana said, a little sardonically, but made a gesture of apology at Lydia's look. Lydia of course saw the Eight Divines as being 'true,' but Tralana knew that there were many more gods who were known to watch over, influence, and even to be a part of Nirn. The Eight Divines were just a selected few of the old Elven and ancient Nordic gods, bearing their new Imperial names, to please the races of both men and mer when Alessia had founded her Empire.

"Alright. So Empress Alessia was a Dragonborn. But what _is _a Dragonborn?" Tralana asked, seriously, remembering the power that had erupted out of her, and the strange, arcane word that she was now able to understand. "What did that guard mean when he said that I could absorb a dragon's power? Empress Alessia never absorbed the power of any dragons, there were no dragons then!"

Lydia was biting her lip, repeatedly looking over her shoulder at Danica to make sure the Priestess was out of earshot.

"There was a purpose for the Dragonborn Emperors," Lydia whispered, feverishly, her voice so low that Tralana could barely hear her. "Before Alessia named the true Eight Divines, the Heartland High Elves, the Ayleids, worshipped the Daedra. Oblivion was much closer to Mundus then than it is now. Do you know" – here, Lydia's face turned noticeably paler – "what an Oblivion Gate is?"

"_Was," _Tralana corrected, harshly, shuddering at the mention of the heathen portal. "They don't exist anymore. They haven't existed since early in the First Era, apart from the Oblivion Crisis, but no one has seen them again since then…"

"That was because of Alessia's pact with Akatosh," Lydia explained. "She named Him chief of the Eight Divines and held Him as patron god of the Empire, and Akatosh rewarded her loyalty. He took an Ayleid soul gem and combined it with His blood, and then sealed Alessia's soul inside it to live forever. It was called – "

"The Amulet of Kings," Tralana finished. "The Red Diamond. _Chim-El Adabel_. Yes, I know. It was the sigil of the Empire for centuries. Every Emperor and Empress of Tamriel wore it."

Lydia was nodding, frantically, clearly excited, but still quickly looking back every now and then to be sure of Danica's distance from the two of them.

"The old Emperors would use the Amulet to light the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One in the Imperial City," Lydia said. "They kept the Daedra from opening their Oblivion Gates and walking in to Mundus to help their worshippers the Ayleids, or to cause any other kinds of chaos. But the Amulet could only be used by a Dragonborn, so the old Emperors of Tamriel all had to be anointed and chosen by Akatosh Himself for the pact to be renewed. Akatosh kept Oblivion closed in exchange for having His Dragonborns placed on the throne, even if they were sometimes outside of the expected royal line…"

Horror was slowly beginning to dawn on Tralana as she realised what Lydia was saying, and she moved back on the marble bed, preparing to launch herself towards the Temple door and make a quick escape.

"Oh, no!" she insisted, loudly. "No, no…I am _not _Akatosh's chosen Empress! I'm a Bosmer, I can't be –"

Lydia grabbed hold of Tralana and heaved her back, silencing her with a hand over her mouth as Danica looked over in alarm.

"Of course you're not the Empress!" she said, angrily, hissing the words between her teeth. "There aren't any Dragonborn rulers of Tamriel anymore, there's no need for them! The pact with Akatosh was ended 200 years ago!"

Tralana ceased in her struggling, and looked at Lydia in confusion. When the Nord was sure that Tralana was calm again, she let her go, and then glanced back at Danica, who was thankfully being drawn away from listening by the pleas of one of her sick charges.

"The Oblivion Crisis happened because the worshippers of Mehrunes Dagon killed the Emperor Uriel Septim VII and his heirs," Lydia continued, calmly and quietly to Tralana, who sat rigid and still. "There was no one left who could light the Dragonfires, no Dragonborn to wear the Amulet. The Oblivion Gates burst open, and Mehrunes Dagon came through. All of Nirn would have been dragged in to the Deadlands if the Hero of Kvatch hadn't found the forgotten son of Uriel Septim, Emperor Martin Septim the Last." She bowed her head, respectfully as she said the name of the short-lived but legendary Emperor. "He sacrificed himself by breaking open the Amulet and using its power to transform his body in to the avatar of Akatosh, banishing Mehrunes Dagon and sealing the Oblivion Gates shut forever. The Daedra can't come through in that way again, they can't break a seal made with the blood, soul, and fire of an Aedra…"

"Then I can't be Dragonborn." The words flooded Tralana with relief as she said them, for it had seemed like Lydia was piling up the weight of a great, unwanted destiny on her shoulders. "I can't be, not if Martin Septim fulfilled the purpose of all the Dragonborn Emperors 200 years ago. There's no need for a Dragonborn to keep Oblivion closed anymore, Akatosh won't have gifted His blood to anyone. I can't be…"

But Lydia's face was still grave, and the way that she looked at Tralana now was a hundred times worse than before, because now, Lydia seemed afraid. Terrified.

"It's as Kol said," she murmured. "There were Dragonborns long before there were Emperors in Cyrodiil. Dragonborns who had a different purpose, linked with some of the very oldest Nord legends from the earliest years of Skyrim, in the time even before the Dragon War broke out. It's said..." The Nord woman's voice faltered, and Tralana felt a horrible sensation in the pit of her stomach. "It's said that one day, there will come a Dragonborn who will…" Lydia stopped, shaking her head, resolutely as she looked at the floor. "No. This is for the Greybeards to tell you. They've summoned you to High Hrothgar, they'll be the ones to tell you if…"

"_Lydia!" _Tralana seized the Nord, desperately by her shoulder. "Tell me _now!"_

Lydia sat, fighting with herself, clearly torn about how much was her place to reveal.

"I can tell you this much," she said at last. "The power you absorbed from that dragon…was its _soul_. Just as Martin Septim absorbed the soul of Saint Alessia and the essence of Akatosh that were bound together inside the Amulet of Kings. Absorbing that dragon's soul gave you the knowledge to understand part of the Dragon Language, and the power to use it as a Shout, the way the dragons do. That's how the very ancient Dragonborns were said to gain power. They could take the souls of dragons, because they themselves were born with dragon souls. Being Dragonborn doesn't just mean you have the _blood_ of a dragon. You have the _soul _of one too."

Lydia closed her eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath.

"You are a dragon in an elven body," she concluded, finally.

How long they really sat there in awed silence was probably no more than several moments, but to Tralana, it felt like years. What frightened her the most was that something inside her was telling her that everything Lydia had said, as incredible as it all sounded, was true, and its truth was as ancient as the ruins of Bleak Falls Barrow. There was nothing she could do to change it.

"How do you know all this?" Tralana asked, looking at Lydia's downturned face.

Lydia smiled slightly, and gave a shrug that rattled her steel armour.

"The history of the Dragon Blood Emperors is common knowledge, and all Nords know the ancient songs and stories of the Dragonborns," she said. "But I know especially because I went on a pilgrimage with my father when I was a child, up to High Hrothgar, where the Greybeards live. It was their Shout that we heard when we were coming back to Whiterun. They were calling you to make the pilgrimage yourself, so that they can teach you the Way of the Voice."

This only filled Tralana with more questions, but it seemed that they would have to wait, because at that moment, she suddenly noticed something that sent a stab of white-hot horror through her chest;

"Where's Ralof?"

Before Lydia could stop her, Tralana leapt up from the marble bed, and ran across the Temple to Danica Pure-Spring.

"Danica, where's Ralof? He should be here, this is where I left him. I'm supposed to take him back to Gerdur in Riverwood."

An awkward look came to Danica's face, and she searched for words.

"I didn't _tell _him to go," she began, cautiously. "He heard me talking about Nettlebane to a pilgrim of Kynareth. He asked me about it, so I told him that it was an ancient weapon, used for the blasphemy of sacrificing Spriggans. They say even the Eldergleam will lift her tangled roots at the touch of that vile thing, so I'd been thinking of laying may hands on it just so I could get close enough to Eldergleam's trunk to harvest some of her sap. I think it might be just what we need to revive the Gildergreen tree. I fear Ralof has gone to claim the dagger."

"How noble," Tralana sighed, wearily. "And where is this Nettlebane?"

Danica clutched at her orange priestess robes, nervously.

"At Orphan Rock. It's a Hagraven nest, just halfway between Helgen and Ivarstead…"

"It's a _what?!"_

Tralana rushed to grab her bow and dagger where they had been left, propped up near the Temple door, but found herself face to face with a shocked Lydia. Tralana cursed, silently to herself when she realised that Lydia had heard everything.

"Ralof?" the shield-maiden gasped. "Ralof, the brother of Gerdur, in Riverwood? The Stormcloak rebel?..."

"Lydia, listen to me," Tralana said, pointing a firm finger at the Nord. "You _can't _tell anyone! I owe Ralof's family a debt, it's my duty to bring him back to them safely. My _sworn_ duty…"

Lydia, however, still looked unsure, and Tralana desperately tried to think of something that would convince the shield-maiden to keep her secret.

"Z'en!" she cried suddenly, almost making Lydia jump.

"What?" Lydia stammered.

"Z'en," Tralana stated again. "You spoke of how Empress Alessia joined the two pantheons of the elves and the Nords together in to the pantheon of the Eight Divines. The _true _Divines. One of those Divines who came from the elven gods was called Z'en, but you now call Him Zenithar."

Lydia frowned in confusion.

"What is Zenithar the god of?" Tralana asked, and Lydia only frowned even more.

"Of labour," she said. "Honest work and labour, trade and – "

Tralana held up her hand.

"Of trade," she nodded in agreement. "And trade, if it's honest, means that the receiving of a service must be responded to with the giving of a payment. Ralof's family gave _me _a service when they took me in after the dragon attack at Helgen. Ralof himself saved my life, Danica can tell you that." Tralana smiled at Lydia, with just a touch of pleading in her eyes. "And in Valenwood, we recognise Z'en as the god of payment _in kind."_

A look of almost despair came to Lydia's face as she realised what this meant, and she sighed a frustrated but wearily conceding sigh, a small smile playing at her lips.

"I am sworn to carry your burdens," she groaned. "Whether they be boots and armour, or secrets and lies!"

Tralana finally relented to something that she had been battling against since the events of Bleak Falls Barrow, and admitted to herself that yes, Lydia _was _her friend.

Damn.


	11. The Companions

**The Companions**

It was with great reluctance that Tralana agreed with Lydia's plan to wait until morning before setting out to find Ralof at Orphan Rock. The Jarl, she said, would be wanting to hear Tralana's account of what had happened at the western watchtower, and would find it suspicious if Whiterun's hero suddenly fled the Temple of Kynareth in the middle of the night with no explanation. So Tralana settled back down on the cold, smooth surface of her marble bed, while Lydia returned to Dragonsreach. The Bosmer was just trying, uncomfortably, to compose herself for sleep, when she spotted the half-empty bag that Hod had prepared for her and Ralof when they had set out from Riverwood. The Stormcloak had clearly riffled through it in a hurry, and left only with what he had felt was useful to him. Quietly standing up from her bed, Tralana went over to the bag, and opened it to find some of the loot that she and Ralof had salvaged from the storerooms of Helgen Keep. There were only a few things – A couple of spell tomes, a handful of weak magicka potions, a bottle of wine…and a book.

Tralana frowned as she drew the black, leather-bound volume from the bottom of the bag. She must have grabbed it by mistake when she was gathering up the many spell tomes that she had found in the storerooms. Flipping the book over, Tralana found that it bore a silver-coloured, metal emblem on its front cover – A dragon, with its wings arranged to form the outline of a diamond. The sigil of the Empire. Curious, Tralana opened the book to its title page, and her eyes widened at what she found printed inside. The title of the volume was _'The Book of the Dragonborn'…_

* * *

Clouds sailed past in the cool, fresh ether, broken here and there by beams of silver sunlight. The air was thin and there was the feel of a great, yawning space beneath her, and Tralana smiled in her sleep as she realised she was back in her old dream. She had had this dream since childhood, where she soared, weightless and formless, over the endless forests of Valenwood, and had never known any other dream in her life. Sleep was the only place where she could see her beloved homeland now, but, as Tralana looked down to take in the deeply welcome and familiar sight, she now found that the forest below looked strange.

Instead of being a vast, dense tangle of towering graht-oaks and twisted mangroves, it was a black sea of thick, snow-capped pines, very unlike the native trees of Valenwood. There was no sign of the many scattered lamplights that could be seen glittering like stars among the branches, or the glimpsed, dark glimmer of the swamps among the crowded mangroves, or the huge, soaring forms of hippogriffs flying over the treetops with their riders clinging to their backs. Instead, there was snow and mist, and the dark, silent acres of pines, so silent, in fact, that Tralana could only hear one sound borne on the icy, still air. It was the sound of a pair of great, beating wings. That was all she heard for several minutes, gliding on and on through the cold, clouded sky, with the snow-covered tops of the pine trees beneath her, until she was suddenly and violently shaken by a chorus of booming voices that seemed to erupt from nowhere;

"_**DOV, AH, KIIN!"**_

Tralana started awake, falling from her marble bed. _'The Book of the Dragonborn' _tumbled from where she'd dropped it after falling asleep – lying open across her stomach – and fell pages-up on to the tiled floor of the Temple. Tralana got up on to her hands and knees, and glared, accusingly at the book, before viciously grabbing hold of it, and hurling it across the room. Had she noticed Danica Pure-Spring standing there, however, she probably would have acted differently.

"How _dare _you throw things in Kynareth's Temple!" the usually calm and gentle-natured priestess fumed, as she was forced to dodge the flying book. "Get out at once! Your wound is healed, and I have done my duty in showing you Kynareth's mercy. Now get _out_, and take those vile heathen weapons with you!"

Tralana did not hesitate in gathering up her dagger and bow, and quickly exiting the Temple. Danica was very lucky that she was a priestess, or the Bosmer might have responded to being yelled at in such a way by testing some of the new ice spells she'd found the previous night in one of the foraged spell tomes from Helgen.

The sky above Whiterun that morning was blue and pleasant, but the breeze seemed a little more fierce than usual, and Tralana thought she could spy a line of grey rain clouds gathering on the distant horizon. She remembered that today was the 20th Last Seed. Summer was wearing down to its final days. As Tralana passed through the Wind District, she noticed that the circle around the Gildergreen Tree sported a rather large cluster of people, all sitting or gathered around the wooden benches at the base of the tree, talking, animatedly to each other. Tralana did not like the conversations she overheard;

"Did you hear it? Booming out in to the night…?"

"Of course I did! All of Skyrim will have heard it! Could it really mean…?"

"They say Helgen was attacked by a dragon. And it was a dragon that destroyed one of the watchtowers, all the guards have been talking about it. You know the legends, about when the dragons would return…"

"The _Dragonborn!"_

Quickening her pace, Tralana made her way up the towering stone steps to Dragonsreach, and found the palace doors held open for her by a pair of guards.

"Welcome, my Thane," one of them said, respectfully, as Tralana crossed the threshold. "The Jarl is expecting you."

"Idiot!" the other guard hissed across at him. "You weren't supposed to tell her! The Jarl has to dub her Thane first!"

"_I'll _escort our honoured guest from here," a familiar, feminine voice said. "Carry on with your duties."

Lydia stood in the middle of the entranceway, and Tralana was surprised to see her wearing, not her usual steel armour, but a fine, blue satin robe, with borders of green silk and gold embroidery, worn over a pale blue silk dress and a metal belt of Nordic design, with a grey fur cape about her shoulders.

"This way," she said, not even giving Tralana enough time to question her friend's rich attire, before leading her, rapidly through the banquet hall of Dragonsreach.

The two of them passed through the small room where they had gathered with Irileth and the Jarl the previous day, and through the connecting, large wooden doors, in to what looked like a small trophy room. Tralana's eyes lingered for a moment over a beautiful elven sword in a glass display case, before Lydia hurried her up a set of stone steps and across a landing that branched off in to three rooms.

"In here," she said, leading Tralana in to one of the rooms, and closing the door behind them.

They were in a large bedroom, hung with white and gold silk tapestries, embroidered with the elaborate designs of Nordic knotwork and the horse head sigil of Whiterun. Through a carved archway was a four poster bed, with blankets of green, gold bordered satin, and in front of them was a long dining table, set with beautifully wrought silver tableware. Standing gathered around the table were Jarl Balgruuf, Irileth, Proventus Avenicci, and Hrongar, the Jarl's brother, all speaking in hushed, frantic tones.

"You heard the summons. What else could it mean?" Tralana heard Balgruuf mutter, before he intoned in a low, awed voice, _"The Greybeards…"_

"Ah, good! You're finally here," Proventus said suddenly, looking up and noticing that Tralana and Lydia had entered the room. "We've been waiting for you."

Lydia urged Tralana towards the table, and then took a step back, watching, intently. There was a pause while Tralana glanced about the secretive meeting, and wondered what on Nirn was going on.

"So, what happened at the watchtower?" Jarl Balgruuf said, impatiently. "You killed the dragon, yes?"

"Of course," Tralana replied, wondering at the Jarl's harsh, almost panic-stricken tone. "The watchtower was destroyed, but we shot down the dragon…" She stopped, hesitant to continue. She had a feeling that the reason why they were all gathered in the Jarl's private quarters had something to do with this speculation of her being Dragonborn, and with the call that had echoed across all of Skyrim. The call that haunted her dreams. If that was the case, she knew that it could only mean one thing. Balgruuf was going to send her on another quest, and just like before, she was not going to be able to refuse. She was never going to get away.

Seeing Tralana hesitate, Balgruuf narrowed his eyes, suspiciously, and continued to question her.

"A mighty deed," he said with a nod. "Whiterun owes you a debt. _I _owe you a debt. But, there must be more to it than that. Did something…_strange_…happen when the dragon died?"

All eyes were now on Tralana, and she threw a glance over her shoulder to see Lydia giving her a meaningful look. The Nord gave a tiny, urging nod of her head, her eyes indicating Balgruuf, and Tralana sighed, and turned back to the Jarl.

"When the dragon died, I…absorbed its soul," she said, feeling the walls of Fate close in around her. "There was a word that I'd seen carved on a wall in Bleak Falls Barrow – A word written in a strange language. I didn't understand what it meant at first, but when I absorbed the dragon's soul from it, the word suddenly came out of me as…As a power of some sort." Tralana looked up, despairingly in to Balgruuf's stunned eyes. "One of the guards called me Dragonborn."

The Jarl reeled back in shock, looking to both Hrongar and Proventus for their reactions.

"So it's true!" he said, turning back to Tralana. "The Greybeards really _were _summoning you! They're masters of the Way of the Voice, living in seclusion high on the slopes of the great mountain the Throat of the World. The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice – The ability to focus your vital essence in to a _Thu'um, _or Shout, just like the Greybeards do, and like the ancient power of the dragons that once ruled over Skyrim. If you really _are _Dragonborn, the Greybeards can teach you how to use your gift."

"Didn't you hear the thundering sound last night, as you returned to Whiterun?" Hrongar said, stepping forward. "That was the Voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar. This hasn't happened in…centuries, at least! Not even the old Dragon Blood Emperors knew how to Shout! The only one who could was Tiber Septim. He was the last Dragonborn summoned by the Greybeards when he was still known as Talos, 'Stormcrown'…"

"Hrongar, calm yourself!" Proventus chided suddenly. "What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here?" The Imperial looked at Tralana with his arms folded, his eyebrow arched in a doubtful expression. "Capable as she may be, I don't see any signs of her being this – what? – 'Dragonborn.'"

The only thing that stopped Hrongar from hurling himself at Proventus was the strong, blocking arm and the furious stare of Irileth, as she gauged the Nord's intention, and quickly threw herself in front of him.

"_Nord nonsense?" _Hrongar seethed, glaring at the Imperial. "Why you puffed-up, _ignorant…_These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire! There are ancient tales of the Dragonborn that go back to even before then…!"

"Hrongar," Jarl Balgruuf said, sternly but calmly. "Don't be so hard on Avenicci."

"I meant no disrespect, of course," said the Steward, politely folding his hands, but Tralana did not miss the slight smugness of his tone, and the venomous look he gave Hrongar. "It's just that…What do these Greybeards _want_ with this Wood Elf?"

"That's the Greybeards' business, not ours."

Now it was Proventus's turn to be spoken to sternly, as Jarl Balgruuf gave him a long look, before walking around the edge of the table, to where Tralana stood. Tralana almost fancied that he looked down on her from his great height in awe and wonder.

"Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something _in _you, and the Greybeards heard it," Balgruuf said. "If _they _think you're Dragonborn…Who are we to argue? But there is a danger…It's the reason why I wanted to speak to you about this back here, with no prying ears to listen. I've instructed the guards who saw what happened at the western watchtower not to reveal to anyone that you are…what we believe you are. The summons from High Hrothgar will have been heard all over Skyrim, and that means that everyone will know the Dragonborn has returned. Including _Ulfric Stormcloak…"_

There was an uncomfortable shuffling amongst those gathered in the room. Nervous glances were exchanged, and Tralana suddenly felt as though she had been ushered in to the Jarl's quarters for sanctuary from a lurking assassin.

"Why would Ulfric Stormcloak be a danger to me?" she asked.

A look of profound sympathy flickered for a moment across Balgruuf's face, and Irileth and Hrongar gave each other knowing looks.

"You're probably already aware of this – you _were _at Helgen – but Ulfric Stormcloak is also a master of the Voice," Balgruuf began, nervously. "Not like the Greybeards, although it was from them that he learned. When he was a boy, Ulfric was chosen by the Greybeards to train under them, and one day be initiated in to the Greybeards himself. He would have spent his life in honour and reverence to the goddess Kynareth, or Kyne, as the Greybeards call Her. They even gave him the name 'Stormcloak,' after the Dragonborn Talos. But when the Great War with the Thalmor broke out, Ulfric forsook the Greybeards, and joined the Imperial Legion. He was a war hero. There is little doubt of that. But he misused the power the Greybeards had taught him.

When the Great War ended, and the Emperor agreed to the terms of the White-Gold Concordat – that the worship of Talos would be outlawed, and the Thalmor would have free reign to stamp out His worshippers anywhere they found them across the Empire – Ulfric was one of its fiercest opponents. This rebellion of his all began when he used the power of his Voice to _kill _Torygg, Skyrim's High King. He wants the throne for himself now, claims it's his by right, and he wants the Empire out of Skyrim. He wants our land cut off and isolated from the rest of Tamriel, left to fend and take care of its own needs. We'd lose the trade and prosperity that the Empire has brought us, and above all, we'd lose the protection. We know that the Summerset Isle has gained control over Elsweyr, and your own homeland, Valenwood. The Thalmor are trying to recreate the old Aldmeri Dominion. The Empire barely has half the glory it once had, without Skyrim, Cyrodiil wouldn't stand a chance against a new war waged by the Thalmor! And then Skyrim herself would be next…"

The Jarl's voice had risen to a desperate plea that begged for understanding, but he stopped, and quickly seized control of himself.

"I don't ask you to choose sides," he said, solemnly. "But I want you to understand that Ulfric is a very proud Nord. To have a Dragonborn as one of his Stormcloaks would be a great honour for him, and also invaluable to his cause. He would see his army as having been blessed by Akatosh Himself; but more than that, the power of a Dragonborn combined with Ulfric's own _Thu'um _would make the Stormcloaks…_unstoppable. _The last _Thu'um _wielding Dragonborn to walk Tamriel was Tiber Septim, and wherever he went, he conquered. Ulfric will want you for one of his Stormcloaks, and if you refuse to take his side, he'll see you as a threat. The Dragonborns did use to be the rulers of the _Empire, _after all. He won't allow you to roam free with the possibility of you joining the Imperial Legion. He'll hunt you down…And he'll kill you."

There was a heavy silence.

"So no revealing to anyone that I'm the Dragonborn, then?" Tralana said with sardonically quirked eyebrow.

Balgruuf gave her a serious look, but there was a touch of amusement in his eyes.

"_No,_" he said, firmly. "If even a whisper of your name reached Ulfric, you wouldn't be safe. You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honour." A wistful smile came to the Jarl's face, and he sighed, softly. "I envy you, you know. To climb the 7000 Steps again…I made the pilgrimage myself once. Did Lydia tell you that? We climbed the mountain together when she was just a child, and meditated on the stone emblems."

Tralana paused for a moment, before realisation suddenly crashed down on her, and she spun round to stare, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at Lydia.

"_You're…?"_

Lydia smiled slightly and bowed her head, almost in embarrassment. Jarl Balgruuf's eyes gleamed as he looked at her.

"My daughter has never boasted of her position," he said. "She wishes to earn her name in the true Nord way, through feats as a great warrior. And I am willing to give her that chance. I assign Lydia to you as your personal housecarl. She will guard you on your journey."

The Jarl then smoothly drew his elegant steel sword from its scabbard, extending his sword arm towards Tralana.

"You've done a great service for me and my city, Dragonborn," he said, and indicated the floor with his blade. "Kneel, and I will reward you."

Tralana took in the sight of the gleaming sword pointing at her, then sighed, wearily as she realised what the Jarl was going to do.

"Oh, no," she groaned under her breath. "Please, _no._"

Lydia placed her hands on Tralana's shoulders, and forced her down on to one knee, where the Jarl lightly tapped his blade on each of the elf's shoulders.

"By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honour that's within my power to grant."

Tralana nodded, politely in acceptance of the gift, and waited until the Jarl bade her rise. When she did, she suddenly found a scroll with a blue wax Alteration seal thrust in to her hand, and looked up to see Irileth's dark and emotionless face.

"Ironflesh," she said, indicating the scroll. "It's a tough one, but it's useful. Learn it."

Tralana blinked at the Dunmer in surprise as she walked back to stand beside Hrongar, then looked down at the scroll in her hand, and gripped her fingers around it. For some reason, she felt rather touched.

"Now, one last thing before you go," Balgruuf said. "I've received word from Eorland Grey-Mane that your new sword is ready. I've instructed Farengar to enchant the weapon for you, he's waiting with it at the Sky Forge. I thought such a blade might be to your taste."

He cast a knowing look to the eerily glistening Daedric dagger at Tralana's belt, and she touched the black and silver hilt, protectively.

"Visiting Jorrvaskr will give you the chance to meet the Companions," the Jarl went on. "It will be a great honour; there are no finer warriors in Skyrim. Be sure you speak with their Harbinger, Kodlak Whitemane, if you have the chance to. What that man can't teach you about skill in battle, only Ysmir could ever master..."

* * *

"Thane of Whiterun!" Tralana said, incredulously, as she and Lydia climbed the steps to the mead hall of Jorrvaskr. "I'm in Skyrim five days, and I'm Thane of Whiterun!"

"The Jarl has recognised you as a person of great importance in the hold," Lydia said, frowning in disapproval at Tralana's lack of gratitude. "A hero!"

"Yes, and I said I didn't want to be called a hero ever again!" Tralana closed her eyes as she sighed, and let her shoulders slump. "This is too much for me, Lydia. I barely know this land, and I suddenly discover I'm part of its oldest legends, and your father is proclaiming me a hero of his city! You don't know about the life I led before I came to Skyrim…"

"No, but nor does it matter," Lydia insisted. "Your deeds since then have more than proven your worth. I consider it an honour to serve you, my Thane."

Tralana looked at her, and gave a snort of laughter.

"And I consider it an honour to be served by you, _your Highness."_

Lydia's face fell, and she hastened ahead towards the doors of Jorrvaskr.

"Perhaps we should dispense with titles from now on?" she said. "We should find Farengar. A mage in the presence of the Companions is unlikely to last long."

Tralana smiled, wickedly at the retreating, armoured figure of her friend. Lydia was obviously much more comfortable in steel breastplates and shields than she was in rich satins and jewels.

* * *

Jorrvaskr itself was an extraordinary, wooden building, similar to the timber long-houses Tralana remembered some of the larger Bosmeris clans of Valenwood living in, but different in one great respect – That it had clearly once been a longboat. The hull of the ship formed Jorrvaskr's impressive, vaulting roof, supported inside by wooden columns and beams, carved with Nordic knot designs. A fire pit glowed in the centre of the hall, surrounded by long, elaborately laid tables, burdened with platters of rich foods, and bottles and flagons of wine, ale, and mead. Scarlet and gold banners decorated the wood panelled walls, and at the far end of the hall was a large, stone niche, holding what seemed to be the assembled pieces of a broken steel battleaxe.

Just as Tralana and Lydia were entering the mead hall, a fist fight was taking place down near the fire pit. A Dunmer man and a young Nord woman brawled, intensely, while a rabble of other mead-swillers cheered them on. Tralana glanced at Lydia, and, finding that her friend offered no reaction to the sight, judged that this was normal behaviour for the Companions of Jorrvaskr. Eventually the Nord woman threw a punch that staggered her Dunmer opponent, and seized the opportunity by swinging him about and trapping his head between her elbows in a headlock. The Dunmer then gave a defeated cry as the Nord drove her knees in to his back, slamming him bodily on to the floor, to the cheers and whoops of the excited onlookers.

"Take it back, elf!" the Nord woman demanded, twisting the Dunmer's arm behind his back. "Take it back, or I'll break every bone in your miserable body!"

"_Agh!" _the Dunmer shrieked, as the Nord gave his arm a particularly violent tug. "Alright, alright! You're _not _jealous of Skjor and Aela! Not in the least! You haven't been mooning after Skjor since you joined the Companions, and you haven't got an Amulet of Mara and a love potion from the Temple of Dibella under your bed!"

With a grunt and a satisfied nod, the Nord released her captive, who stood up and walked away, grumbling and cradling his sore arm. As the onlookers by the fire pit began to disperse, Lydia led Tralana forward towards the centre of the hall, but the Bosmer was stopped in her tracks by a sudden, hysterical shout.

"_Altmer filth!" _a rough, broken voice screamed, and a finely dressed, elderly Nord man, his hair and moustache long and silvered, stormed across the hall towards the newcomers, pointing a shaking finger at Tralana. "Liars! Murderers! Enemies of Talos! We don't want your kind in here, High Elf! Here, we fight for the _true _sons and daughters of Skyrim, not your treacherous Imperial lapdogs!"

Lydia leapt, defensively in front of Tralana, glaring at the old man, but a huge, hulking figure also stepped in front of her.

"You might want to keep your tongue in your head, Vignar," a rough, gravelly voice said in a warning growl. "By the looks of it, you just insulted a friend of Lady Lydia. The Jarl's not gonna like that. Me neither, now that I think about it."

Another figure came forward from a corner of the hall, and Tralana peered past Lydia and the burly man stood in front of her to see a beautiful Nord woman with long, reddish hair, and piercing, silver eyes. She was clad strikingly in what looked like a set of ancient Nordic armour, with a leather tunic, heavy iron pauldrons and bracers, and an iron chestpiece and armbands decorated with pieces of malachite, her strong, pale face daubed, dramatically with stripes of black war paint. The woman fixed Tralana with a look from her strange eyes, before tutting, and shaking her head.

"Your eyes are playing tricks on you, old man," she said, her voice cold and deep. "She's not an Altmer, she's a Bosmer. Leave the poor wretch alone, for Shor's sake."

She cast a withering look to the man stood in front of Lydia, before firmly leading the old Nord away, responding to his loud complaints of, "Well, how was I supposed to know that? Damn elves all look the same to me!" with nothing but stony silence. The tall, burly man now turned to face Lydia and Tralana, and revealed himself to be a rugged-faced Nord, with long, straggled black hair, and dark red war paint smeared about his surprisingly kind, grey eyes. He ignored Tralana completely, however, and instead turned his gaze to her housecarl, a small, shy smile touching the corner of his lips.

"You okay, Lady Lydia?" he asked, a red flush creeping under his thick stubble. "This Stormcloak business has got Vignar wound tight enough to snap. The Grey-Mane's have even turned their backs on the Battle-Born's 'cos of it, and they've been close as kin ever since they first sailed here with the 500 Companions. Don't make sense to me."

"The war will divide Skyrim in worse ways than that, Farkas," Lydia said, gravely, before she turned, and presented Tralana. "But there are other concerns to think about, such as the dragon threat. This is Tralana Dwin'eplith, the Jarl's Thane. She served Whiterun by bringing down the dragon that attacked the western watchtower."

The Companion Farkas was clearly impressed, and thumped a fist to his steel breastplate in a salute.

"Honour to you, Thane," he said, before giving a warm, wolfish grin. "A dragon, huh? Now _that's _something! How big was it? You get a tooth or a claw from the thing? Maybe a bone?"

Tralana couldn't help but smile at the Companion's genuine, amiable manner.

"No, but I did get a facefull of flames," she said, indicating where she had been burned, but the only sign left of her injury was a faint, pinkish smudge of scarred skin on her right cheek (The care of Danica and Irileth had seen to that.)

"Ah, a scar's as good a battle souvenir as any," Farkas said with a shrug. "You'll have come for your sword, then? That mage is just finishing enchanting it. Don't know why you'd need an enchantment on a blade made by Eorland, though."

"It's not a question of Eorland's skill, Farkas," Lydia protested, but her tone was sweet, and her eyes were fond as she looked at the Companion. "The Thane simply prefers enchanted weapons."

The ruddy red hue returned under Farkas's beard, and his hand flew to the back of his head.

"Whatever you think is best, Lydia…My lady," he corrected himself. "I hear Eorland's proud of this sword, couldn't tear himself from the forge until he'd finished it. The mage has been driving him crazy, though…"

Just then, the doors on the other side of the hall opened, and in from the training yard of Jorrvaskr walked Farengar and an elderly, grizzled-haired Nord with a long beard, who bore a passing resemblance to Vignar. Judging by his hard, worked hands and blackened nails, Tralana took it that this was Eorland Grey-Mane, the famed blacksmith. The Nord's eyes were tired and weary, and Tralana suspected that it was not just from working over the forge.

"…And you see, _that's _how I made the vital translation," Farengar was rambling as he and the blacksmith entered the hall, Farengar carrying a sword wrapped in a sheet of leather. "An easy mistake, really. The Dragon Language is so complex, one word, or even half of one word, can have many different meanings. The idea is not to look at it with the normal mindset of the basic flow of Tamrielic, but to sometimes attempt to read the words of a sentence in a different order – "

"Ah, Farengar!" Lydia interrupted, loudly, diving in to rescue Eorland. "You have the sword, I see. Would you present it to our Thane?"

The mage smiled and nodded, excusing himself from the relieved looking Eorland, and approached Tralana with the covered sword lying flat across his palms.

"I call it Sky Fire," he said, proudly, as Tralana parted the leather wrappings. "The enchantment is a good, strong fire, and the blade is of course Skyforge steel. The very best in Skyrim."

Tralana slowly picked up the dazzling steel sword, and wrapped her fingers around its moulded hilt, the curves fitting so exactly in to her hand, it was as though Eorland Grey-Mane had crafted it within her very grip. The blade was identical in every way to Irileth and Balgruuf's swords, long and tapered to a fine, thin point, and with Nordic designs scrolling around the perfectly balanced hilt, but Tralana could see that it also rippled with enchanted veins of amber light. She twirled the blade around, hearing it sing through the air, and then gave it a hard swing to her left.

"_Whoa!" _Farkas cried out in alarm, but before Tralana knew what was happening, her blade was suddenly deflected in a smash of orange sparks, and she found that a burly, white-haired Nord stood in the path of her sword arm. His hair and beard were both long and thick, and on what little that could be seen of his face was a swirl of red war paint. He wore an intriguing set of steel armour, trimmed with midnight black fur, and the collar above his ornate chestplate was moulded in to a fierce and skilful depiction of a wolf's head.

"Harbinger!" Lydia gasped, pulling Tralana back by her shoulder, while Tralana herself stared in horror. She could have killed the old man!

"No need to worry, my lady," the elderly Nord said in a deep, soft voice. "My body might be consumed by the rot, but I still know how to block a blade. But this must be our new Thane. Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions."

Tralana felt strangely exposed under Kodlak Whitemane's pale, infinitely wise gaze, his eyes holding intense fierceness, and yet also understanding and kindness at the same time.

"Tralana Dwin'eplith," she said, quickly handing Sky Fire to Lydia, and giving the old Nord a respectful salute. "I'm honoured to meet you, Harbinger."

"You are too kind. I am equally honoured to meet a warrior to whom the Whiterun hold owes such a debt. They say you grounded a dragon with only two arrows? Impressive. It also tells me that you are much more skilled with your bow than you are with your sword."

Tralana's face would have glowed red with shame, had she and Kodlak not been interrupted at that moment by the entrance of another, younger Nord. He wore identical armour to Kodlak, but bore such a striking resemblance to Farkas (albeit with well-groomed hair and an almost clean-shaven face,) that the two of them could only have been twin brothers.

"Master, I must speak with you!" he said, earnestly, approaching Kodlak.

Kodlak gave the man a rather stern glance.

"I am no one's master, Vilkas," he said. "And whatever it is, it can wait. We have been honoured with a visit from the Thane and the Jarl's daughter…"

"Actually, we must be going," Tralana said, eager to leave Jorrvaskr after the embarrassment of almost severing Kodlak Whitemane's head. "I have an important…summons to answer. And a friend needs my aid."

She half-turned towards the doors, motioning for Lydia to follow, but then, in the corner of her eye, she suddenly saw Kodlak Whitemane's face blanch and his lips part in a look of deep shock and awe. Tralana looked back at the old man with a frown, wondering what had so moved him, but the Nord in the wolf armour, Vilkas, was still desperate for the Harbinger's attention.

"You don't understand!" he pleaded, quietly in Kodlak's ear. "I still feel the call of the Blood!"

Kodlak did not seem able to keep himself from staring at Tralana, but eventually he tore his eyes away from the elf, and turned to the almost frantic Vilkas.

"We _all _do," he muttered, his hand on Vilkas's shoulder. "It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome."

Kodlak looked back over his shoulder, and his gaze met instantly and intensely with Tralana's;

"I won't keep you, my Thane, Lady Lydia. No doubt you have important business from the Jarl, and it seems I must attend to my own duties as Harbinger. Farewell."

Tralana nodded, gratefully, and made her leave of the Companions. But just as she and Lydia were passing back over the threshold of Jorrvaskr, Tralana thought that she heard a final whisper from Kodlak Whitemane, something said in a hushed, dream-like tone so low it could barely be heard, but which seemed to be breathed in her direction. It was snatched, quickly away by Jorrvaskr's doors closing behind them, and Tralana was sure she must have misheard it. For Kodlak Whitemane's final, parting word to her was something that sounded strangely like;

"_Dragon eyes…"_


	12. Orphan Rock

**Orphan Rock**

For a wanted traitor who was meant to be lying low, Ralof had certainly left his mark leaving Whiterun. The first whiff of his trail could be caught barely a stone's throw away from the main gates, where Tralana and Lydia overheard the couple who ran the blacksmith shop, Warmaiden's, arguing about a set of iron armour that had been brought in for repair and mysteriously gone missing (Lydia also informed Tralana that the woman who worked the forge, Adrianne Avenicci – daughter of the Jarl's Steward no less – was a formidable sword-maiden, while her husband, Ulfberth War-Bear, had famed accuracy with a war hammer, and had managed to crush a bear's skull when he was only sixteen. Ralof was obviously nothing if not idiotically brave.) Over the outer drawbridge and past the guard towers was another piece of Ralof's handiwork – Allie was gone from the Whiterun stables. The stable master, Skulvar Sable-Hilt, claimed not to have seen when she was taken, and after much interrogating under the tip of Eduj, Lydia finally believed him. So Tralana was granted a new horse from the Jarl's own stables – A stunning palomino stallion called Frost.

"He's the fastest horse in the hold," Lydia enthused, which did nothing to help Tralana's confidence as she uncertainly mounted the tall steed. The Bosmer was quickly growing to realise that she did not much care for horses. If only they had wings, rather than clunkily making their way along the ground, then riding them might go a little more smoothly.

Their path took them to familiar territory down the grassy tundra and through the village of Riverwood, passing by the powerful White River, and the beautiful, flowering woodlands that Tralana remembered from her eventual escape with Ralof from the caves below Helgen. They both of them kept their eyes straight ahead as they passed under the shadow of Bleak Falls Barrow, starting up a brisk trot as they delved deeper in to the pine forests of Falkreath, which Lydia warned were teaming with wolves. Distant howls were heard often, spooking Bruna, but Frost (much to Tralana's relief,) proved solid and steady. It was a long, slope-climbing ride, until twilight settled in, and it was only as they were setting up camp in the dim, grey light of the forest, that Tralana realised what direction they were heading in;

"We're heading towards Helgen."

Lydia, who sat labouring over her attempts to light a campfire, looked up as though she herself had only just remembered this.

"We are," she breathed, but words seemed to fail her, and she went back to her work with the kindling box, leaving Tralana to stand in mournful silence. Tralana's mind searched, clumsily and almost desperately for something trivial to talk about.

"Are you sure this is a good place to camp?" she said eventually, frowning at the spot where Lydia blew sparks over the dry wood and pine cones she had collected. "We're a long way back from the road…"

"Of course it is," Lydia said, irritably, her brow furrowing in concentration as the tips of the pine cones glowed and smouldered for a moment. "We want to keep away from the precipice. The fire would be visible from all the way back in Whiterun if we set up overlooking the tundra, and there are bandits everywhere!"

Tralana, of course, had already known this (she had hunted and camped for most of her life in a forest thick with predators, and now with far worse things,) but her mind was absent with the unwanted, returning images of Helgen on fire, which only brought back other memories she dearly wanted to forget. With a flick of her wrist, Tralana cast a firebolt at the empty campfire, causing it to burst in to life, and Lydia started back with a slight shriek. The elf then laid her bow and Sky Fire down on the bedroll Lydia had laid out for her, and went over to the nearest tree, nimbly scaling its trunk by digging her dagger in to the bark.

"Where are you going?" Tralana heard Lydia's taken aback cry from the ground below.

"To sleep," the Bosmer called back, as she settled on a thick branch some fifteen feet up.

"In a tree?"

"Above ground," Tralana agreed. "That way the sound of the bandits killing you first can act as a warning for me."

"I am your sword and your shield, my Thane," Lydia said, sarcastically.

* * *

White, sunlit fog filled Tralana's eyes, and the sound of rhythmic, leathery wings beat against her ears, as she sailed through open sky like a Dwemer airship borne on the wind. The cold, soft dampness of the clouds brushed against her underside, and she felt as though she were stretched out in a swan-dive position, gliding headfirst through the gradually thinning clouds ahead of her. Below, the wide, rocky expanse of a yellow grass plain trickled away in to flecks of dark green, until it was covered with a dense pine forest. She swept low, almost touching the canopy, and the smell of fading smoke drifted up from somewhere, prompting her to look down, when suddenly, the great cry once again rang out through the air;

"_**DOV, AH, KIIN!"**_

Tralana's eyes snapped open. She was lying on her back on the soft, flaking bark and moss of the curved branch, her leg dangling down above the camp, her dagger clutched from long habit in both her hands, clasped together on her chest. This warping of her usual dream with the beckoning Voices of the Greybeards was beginning to frighten her. Just as Tralana was about to turn her head to look down at Lydia, however, a faint but horrifying echo caught her sharp hearing. She lay there, eyes wide and listening for a moment, before leaping to her feet with her knees bent, balancing, carefully on the branch. Tralana climbed higher up in to the tree, up towards the golden sunlight of the dawn, and broke through the canopy, finding herself in an enchanted world of pink, cloud-strewn sky, with the glimmer of dying stars blinking at her far above. The wind blew her short, tawny hair wildly about, and her heart almost stopped for a moment as she took in the landscape of Skyrim – rich with forests, glades, and blue, snow-covered mountains, and acres of white, flat ice and grey clouds that sprawled miles away across the northern horizon – in a way that truly did justice to its beauty. Tralana had little time to admire it, however, for she was watching, intently for something. And she saw it a few moments later in the west, closing in as a terrifying, black shape in the distance.

Stealing herself, Tralana hastily made her way back down the tree, but the approaching roar was now loud and distinct, and below her on the ground, Lydia had started awake. As the Nord shield-maiden scrambled for her bow, Tralana slid down the rest of the tree, carving a line in the trunk with her dagger, and pounced on her housecarl, grabbing her wrists and stopping her from reaching for the bow with one hand, and covering her mouth with the other. Lydia froze, knowingly, and the two of them crouched in complete silence as the huge, eclipsing shadow of the dragon passed over them like night. It wheeled about in the air to hover over where they hid, its roar so loud and ear-splitting, that it made Tralana wince. A cold feeling of relief flooded the burning panic in her chest, however, as the dragon suddenly straightened its course, and flew on towards the east, its cries and wing-beats growing steadily quieter, until at last they were gone.

Tralana released Lydia, and fell back on to the grass, trembling, and was pleased when even her battle-ready, 'to the death' housecarl did not protest at their decision to avoid the dragon. The campsite was quickly folded up, the horses untethered from where they had been left a short distance away, and the two of them continued on their route towards Helgen.

* * *

"So this is it?"

Tralana easily picked the lock of the gates to Helgen's ruins, and swung them open, slowly, revealing the vast, stone courtyard, piled with charred and broken rubble.

"This is it," she said, swallowing, heavily, and having to close her eyes for a moment as a flicker of memory tried to sting her.

The idea that the desolate graveyard of splintered timbers and crumbled masonry had been standing as a thriving Nordic town not a week before seemed almost laughable. Of traces of houses, there were none, save for the bare skeletons of front porches, and the burned bedframes and lonely stone fireplaces that served as the only evidence that life had once existed where the sad wreckage now lay. Entire stone towers had fallen like felled trees over pathways, blocking off certain parts of the ghost town, and the only thing that seemed to bear any resemblance at all to what it had once been was Helgen's keep, smashed and jagged around the battlements, and entirely collapsed on one side, but still the most whole out of all the empty buildings.

Lydia stared, silently about her, her eyes wide and glassy, while Tralana walked ahead holding Frost by his bridle, looking down at the churned, dusty earth.

"_Al, du, in."_

Tralana looked back, curiously.

"What was that?" she said.

Lydia started a little on her horse, and glanced, almost with guilt about the silent ruins.

"It's nothing," she said. "It means '_Master of Destruction,' 'Devourer of Kings.' _It's just something I remembered from an old song…Orphan Rock isn't far now, it's just beyond those gates, up the forest path by the road, you'll see it marked by a cairn..."

The sight of the devastated town must have affected Lydia particularly strongly for such a gruesome thought to have come in to her head, Tralana thought. Hauling open the main gates, the two riders led their horses along the stone flagged road, until they reached an unusually arranged pile of rocks not far from the old town, daubed horrifically with patches of dark, dried-on blood, and with a human skull placed grimly on top.

"It's a warning," Lydia explained, as she tethered Frost and Bruna to a nearby tree, while Tralana inspected the terrible marker. "You paint a cairn like that if you don't want anyone following the path."

"What's a cairn?" Tralana asked, looking, suspiciously up the narrow, winding dirt path that led away amongst the trees and the tangled, russet undergrowth.

"Exactly what it looks like. A pile of rocks," Lydia said, making her way over to where her friend stood. "Sometimes they're just markers for a path, like this, sometimes they're gravestones built around the ancient tombs, and sometimes they're monuments to the sky spirits. You remember those three we passed by on the road from Riverwood? We call them Standing Stones. You're supposed to pray to them to receive a blessing from the stars."

"I doubt this one would be willing to give any blessings," Tralana said, wrinkling her nose at the bloody cairn that marked the path to Orphan Rock.

Unsheathing their weapons in a glimmer of blue and orange light, Tralana and Lydia crept at a quick but stealthy pace along the forest path, the long grass and tangled wild flowers flickering at the passing touch of their shoulders. Their way was led by more of the hideous cairns, painted with warning designs in dark red blood, and decorated with tattered scraps of cloth, human bones, and even the severed heads of goats. Lydia kept flinching and pointing her sword at every whisper of movement, as though expecting an attack, even though Orphan Rock itself was not yet in sight. Tralana was just about to ask her friend what she was looking out for, when they stumbled upon a gruesome find lying across the forest path. A body.

Not, Tralana was relieved to see, Ralof's body, but the body of a darkly robed Dunmer woman, bearing the necromancer's seal of a green skull across her chest, and a gaping wound in her back.

"A witch," Lydia said, looking down at the find. "Probably a servant of the Hagraven. I had a feeling we'd find them here."

"Is it true, what they say about the Hagravens?" Tralana asked, as they stepped their way around the body, and continued up the path. "That they're witches who become twisted by dark magic?"

Lydia nodded, indicating another dead witch that lay slumped against a tree a short way off – An Altmer woman wearing the same necromancer's robes, with a steel arrow through her forehead.

"All Hagravens start out as mortal witches," Lydia said. "This one must have had a coven training under her for transformation, before your Stormcloak friend showed up. Hagravens despise everything about Nature, even the bodies She gives them. So they use magic to give themselves more powerful forms – Powerful, but filthy and hideous forms. Be sure you keep back from its claws if we run in to it, one scratch from those things can give you the brain rot."

Tralana shuddered. She had never seen a Hagraven for herself, only heard tales of them from her grandfather and from the Orcs that lived in Falinesti, Valenwood's capital city. She did not want Lydia to know, but she dreaded having to finally clap eyes on one of the famously vile and ugly creatures.

As they scurried further up the path, with a plume of thin smoke indicating that they were getting closer to the Hagraven's nest, they found another dead witch, a Dunmer with vicious, red wounds to her chest and face, the unmistakeable slashes of a war axe.

"This Ralof of yours is a formidable warrior," Lydia commented, but rather than sounding admiring, she delivered the statement with a contemptuous sniff, and then looked at Tralana in a rather suspicious manner.

"Why are you so eager to find him, anyway? I understand that you feel bound to his family, but no traitor is worth fighting a Hagraven for!"

Tralana turned her eyes heavenwards, and sighed, shaking her head.

"So much for honour and valour then, Lydia," she snorted. "And you're forgetting that he's not a traitor to me."

Lydia looked up, sharply, her eyes narrowing.

"What is he, then? Surely you and he aren't…?"

Tralana started, and looked at her housecarl, incredulously.

"Of course not!" she hissed. "I barely know him! I simply meant that I have no allegiance to the Empire _or _to the Stormcloaks, so I can't consider him a traitor any more than I can consider him a friend. I just want to repay the debt I owe him for saving my life in Helgen."

The dirt path came to an end, and the two of them dashed in to the thick undergrowth beneath a sheltering pine, as Orphan Rock finally came in to view. The Rock itself stood separate from the wooded mountain slope where they now stood, reached via a natural bridge formed by a fallen tree. On their side of the bridge, Tralana could see the rough tents built by the witch coven that served the Hagraven, thrown together from animal hides on frames of elk antlers, and hung with strings of Spriggan taproots. A pair of Spriggan heads were mounted, gruesomely on two wooden stakes that stood flanking the end of the bridge, along with a burning, charcoal brazier that threw its smoke up to the clouds. The nest itself, which must have been on the summit of Orphan Rock, Tralana could not see, and she looked back at Lydia to suggest they move to get a better view, when she saw the still irritable look that soured the shield-maiden's face. Tralana scowled.

"Perhaps if you want to talk about possible romances, we should look at you and Farkas?" she sniffed, and a shameful colour instantly sprang up in to Lydia's cheeks.

"What do you mean?" she demanded with outraged eyes, but the redness of her face gave her away. "There is nothing between me and Farkas!"

A smile curled the corner of Tralana's lips as she looked at her friend.

"I suppose you're going to act innocent and pretend you didn't notice the way he looked at you in Jorrvaskr?" she said. "If I were you, I'd be pleased, he seems to have a kind heart. And didn't Jarl Balgruuf say something about the Companions being the finest warriors in Skyrim?"

Lydia opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off by a pleading yell that suddenly came from the direction of Orphan Rock;

"Forgive me mistress, please! We tried to stop him, but we were unprepared, he killed Andralia before she could warn us…!"

"_WEAKLING!"_

Tralana's skin prickled at the sound of the hideous, rasping voice, and she and Lydia fell back as an explosive fireball suddenly shook the earth, sending the limp, dead form of a Nord witch hurtling through the air, and crashing down amongst the tents. Heavy, wet footsteps could now be heard padding about on the hidden nest, and Tralana turned, slowly to look at the panting Lydia with wide, horrified eyes.

"Right," Lydia whispered, looking a little helplessly over at the now burning wreckage of the camp. "We'll have to create a distraction. You can cast a few spells, right? Aim something over there, and I'll run across the tree while that beast's head is turned. Ready?"

"Lydia, I don't think – "

"Then I'll just run across there now!" the shield-maiden said, glaring, impatiently at Tralana. "If a Stormcloak rebel can kill three witches, I can handle a Hagraven! Now _do it!"_

With a defeated sigh, Tralana turned, and fired an ice spike across at the far side of the camp, which prompted an angry squawk from the Hagraven. Sword drawn, Lydia charged out in to the open and made for the end of the bridge, but dived for cover a moment later, narrowly avoiding an incoming fireball. The Nord looked up at Tralana with a panic-stricken face, and Tralana began to glance around the camp for some suitable cover that would get them a good shot at the Hagraven. Her eyes were drawn to the cluster of trees that stood just behind the wrecked tents; specifically, to their highest branches, which would afford a good view of Orphan Rock. Tralana turned, urgently to Lydia.

"How fast can you run?" she said.

Lydia looked horrified at the question.

"Don't look at me like that! I want to know if you can reach those boulders over there, and then run back again?"

"I think so," Lydia said, looking across at the spot where Tralana was pointing. "But, what are you going to do?"

"I need to get above ground," said Tralana, indicating her target of the treetops opposite the Rock with her eyes. "You need to keep that Hagraven distracted until I get there, preferably _without _getting yourself killed, understand?"

Lydia gave a firm nod.

"Mara's mercy on you, my friend," she said, and then dashed, wildly for the boulders on the other side of the camp.

While the Hagraven threw fireballs at Lydia like a moving target, Tralana hastened across to the trees behind the camp at a creeping run, sheathing Sky Fire and removing her dagger from her satchel as she went. She scuttled up one of the trees, hauling her way up to the highest branch that would still support her weight, and then looked out over Orphan Rock to view her target. Her heart leapt in horror as she drew her bow and notched an arrow, however, as she saw the monstrous form of the Hagraven that was still furiously hurling fireballs at Lydia, slowly burning everything on the other side of the bridge. It had the bent, crooked shape of a withered hag, but its hands and feet were like the huge, hooked and bony claws of a crow, its nose beak-like, and its eyes fiery red, clothed in unnatural sproutings of black feathers.

Fighting down the tremor that tried to unsteady her aim, Tralana released her arrow, and watched it sail through the air towards the top of Orphan Rock, piercing the Hagraven through the chest, causing it to stagger back with a shrill cry. Tralana smiled, triumphantly, but her smile was short-lived, as she saw the wisps of golden light that began to swirl around the Hagraven. The vile creature pulled the arrow from its chest, causing the wound to magically close, and then looked up at Tralana's perch with burning eyes. Tralana barely had time to leap down a few branches before the top of the tree was hit by an enormous fireball, shaking it to its roots. She stumbled as she clambered down through the branches, steadied herself with a grasping hand, then stumbled again, and fell around six feet to land, heavily on her back, with burning pine needles raining down on her.

Lydia, meanwhile, was still madly running from place to place, but skidded to a halt behind a sheltering rock as she saw Tralana fall from the burning tree. She signalled, frantically to her friend, and Tralana raised a hand to show that she was alright, before her eyes widened with horror, and she threw herself forward in to a tumble roll, avoiding the ball of flame that tore towards her. As she waded out through the blackened, tangled wreckage of the tents, she saw Lydia sprinting to join her, closely pursued by another raging fireball. Tralana aimed a jet of frostbite, which Lydia quickly ducked, and the thick stream of ice extinguished the ball of fire, allowing Tralana to run over and haul Lydia to her feet, before the two of them leapt for cover again from the Hagraven's on-going attack.

"Any ideas?" Lydia gasped, breathlessly, wiping the black smears of soot from her face.

Tralana peered out from behind their cover, and observed the chasm of air between them and Orphan Rock, some ten feet across, and dropping down in to a deep gorge.

"One," she said, a little hesitantly, drawing her sword. "Lydia, put your shield on your back."

The housecarl frowned, but obeyed the strange request, crouching where Tralana indicated, and reaching behind her to hold her shield across her back, bracing herself with a foot against a boulder.

Tralana stood up, stepped ten carefully measured paces away from Lydia, paused for a moment to take a deep breath, turned, and ran as hard as she could towards the gorge, jumping up at the last minute, and spring-boarding herself off of Lydia's shield. The Bosmer flew across the yawning gap sword-first, thanking the gods that the hideous Hagraven was stood so close to the Rock's edge, as she brought Sky Fire down with a hack in to its skull, and used the creature's falling body as an anchor to pull herself forwards on to the nest. She fell on her front, the leather of her armour scraping across stone as she skidded, and frantically stopped herself with her hands, as she suddenly found herself looking down over the edge of the cliff in to the rocky, overgrown gorge below.

"Tralana!" Lydia called, frantically. "Tralana, are you alright?"

Tralana's eyes bulged as she stared down in to the gorge.

"Lydia!" she called back. "Help me up!"

* * *

A thorough search of the nest revealed no sign of the ancient ebony dagger that Danica had described. The nest itself consisted of a hide tent, crowned with an elk's skull, some chests of vile ingredients and soul gems, an arcane enchanter, and the feebly glowing body of a dead Spriggan, thrown across a burning brazier, its twisted, wooden-like flesh singed by the embers.

"Looks like that Stormcloak made it out of here alive," Lydia said, noticeably disappointed. "He's taken the dagger."

Tralana slammed shut the chest she was rifling through, and ran a frustrated hand through her hair.

"Where could he have gone?" she thought aloud. "What did he want Nettlebane for?"

"To retrieve the sap, I suppose," Lydia said, sitting herself down on top of a blood-stained chest. "Why else would he need it? Danica Pure-Spring said it's the only thing that can pierce the bark of the Eldergleam Tree."

Though Tralana couldn't understand _why _Ralof had gone to fetch the sap for Danica, she realised that it was the only explanation they had.

"Where is this Eldergleam Tree?" she said, turning to face Lydia.

"Eldergleam Sanctuary, in Eastmarch, south-west of Windhelm," Lydia replied. "It'll take days to get there."

"Then we'd better start moving now," Tralana said, sheathing Sky Fire, and walking towards the fallen tree that bridged the gap between Orphan Rock and the mountainside. "Which road do we have to take to get there?"

"The road to Ivarstead should take us there fairly straightforwardly…"

They crossed the fallen tree one at a time, and began making their way back down the forest path, back towards the road.

"Is that a town?" Tralana said, glancing back at Lydia. "Good, we'll probably have to stop for supplies along the way. We didn't expect to have to ride so far. Is there an inn in Ivarstead?"

"The Vilemyr," Lydia said, looking at Tralana rather intently. "They do business with pilgrims mostly. It's the last stop people make before climbing the 7000 Steps to High Hrothgar…To seek wisdom from the Greybeards…"


	13. The Ghost of Shroud Hearth Barrow

**The Ghost of Shroud Hearth Barrow**

The ride to Ivarstead was not a safe or easy journey. They would be leaving the Falkreath hold, Lydia said, and as such would be moving beyond the borders of Imperial control, and crossing in to Stormcloak territory. The road snaked through a long, winding, narrow mountain pass, heavily overshadowed by the looming rocks, which were already sporting icicles, as they travelled further towards the more northern and coldest reaches of Skyrim. An early autumn rainstorm made their camp that night in the mountain pass miserable, even more so because Lydia refused to take shelter in a cave that they came across called Haemar's Shame (She insisted that it was because the cave was likely a hideout for bandits, who regularly patrolled lonely roads like this in search of travellers to rob, but Tralana suspected from the fearful look in her eyes that there was some sort of local superstition connected to the cave.) Cold and wet, they trudged on the next morning through the pleasant, golden aftermath of the rainfall, which soon warmed their chilled bones, and helped to lift their spirits a bit, as the birds were singing, the morning dew was fragrant, and beams of brilliant sunlight dazzlingly broke the gloomy shadows of the dark mountain pass.

It was not long before the familiar scent of damp earth and leaves reached Tralana, and she knew that they were approaching a forest. When they eventually emerged from between the frowning rocks, however, the sight that greeted them was not at all what she had been expecting. Instead of rolling slopes of densely growing, dark pines, the forest on the far side of the mountain pass was an enchanted woodland of birches and willows, gleaming white and silvery among copper grasses, their green leaves now just starting to rust with reds and oranges as the autumn drew near. Tralana could only imagine that, at the very peak of the fall, the forest must have been a riot of fiery colours, with delicious and warming autumn smells borne on the cool wind. The many birds and butterflies of Skyrim populated the trees with their constant rustling, flittering in and out of view with flashes of bright, pleasant colours, as they harvested their nectar and berries from the wild bushes and glades of forest blossoms.

Tralana was incredibly moved by the sight, and almost turned Frost away from the road to venture deeper in to the wild woodlands, but was stopped by a word of warning from Lydia.

"We're in the outskirts of the Rift," she murmured, bringing Bruna up alongside Frost, and glancing about at the long, waving, leaved curtains of the forest. "Plenty of predators here – Bears, wolves, Frostbite Spiders, you name it. There's a den of bears not far up there, Honeystrand Cave, I think it's called. Farkas once told me that he and Njada were attacked by them when they were summoned here to find a missing alchemist. Come on, we'd better keep moving. Stay close."

They trotted on through the beautiful forest, startling the occasional fox or rabbit in the undergrowth, and stirring up a flock of crows which clattered, noisily away over the treetops. The high noon sun soon drenched the whole woodland, and the previous night's rain was only a thin, white steam of memory, evaporating in to the air. The terrain, Tralana noticed, was particularly rough and rocky, as though they were riding on a mountainside, and a distant rumbling and the fierce gleam of the sun on a large body of water alerted her to the presence of a waterfall. They must have been on high ground. Indeed, Tralana soon realised that they were much higher than she had expected, as the small, quaint, and thoroughly traditional looking settlement of Ivarstead came in to view through the harsh, golden sunbeams.

It sprawled, uniquely placed, on a plain of raised tableland that stood almost as a natural dam to a small lake, which curved round beneath a stone bridge that connected Ivarstead to the mainland, and then roared down what must have been several hundred metres in a spectacular waterfall (the only break in the dividing wall of the tableland.) Reaching high in to the heavens on the east side of the small town, dressed in a shawl of white mist, and crowned with shining snow, stood the imposing form of the Throat of the World. Tralana held in a gasp as she saw it. They had been journeying around its base for quite some time, but a good view of the mountain had not been at hand until now, as they stood at the end of the bridge that led in to Ivarstead. Even now, its summit was partially concealed in a haze of clouds. The Throat of the World was said to be the tallest mountain in all of Tamriel, and seeing it now, Tralana could well believe that.

As they walked their horses forward across the bridge, it was clear that the small town of Ivarstead was far from at ease. Though people went about their everyday trades – carrying firewood to and from the lumber mill, tending to the crops on the farm that seemed the main hub of the fairly quiet place, and fishing in the nearby lake – there were a great amount of nervous glances thrown up at the overlooking mountain, as well as frantic mutterings, and the whole town nearly stopped dead as the two strangers came riding across the bridge. Tralana's nervousness was only increased when she noticed the town's proximity to an ancient Nordic ruin. Really, were all Nords intent on settling in the shadows of their old burial mounds? The low, domed structure, covered thickly in moss, and with a tall stone cairn placed in its entranceway, stood at the crest of a gentle rise that overlooked Ivarstead, a distinct shadowy pall seemingly hanging over it. Despite being a great deal smaller than Bleak Falls Barrow, it looked just as grim and menacing.

"This is it," Lydia said, halting Bruna in front of the Vilemyr Inn.

"Good," Tralana sighed, dismounting from Frost, and stretching her sore, stiffened legs. "I think we can spend the night here. It'll be nice to sleep somewhere warm and dry for a change!"

"And we can ask about the Greybeards," Lydia added, looking over her shoulder at Tralana, as she handed Frost and Bruna's reins to a young groom who lolled about on the inn's porch. "Some of the townsfolk do trade with them, and I'm sure the innkeeper will have shared stories with the pilgrims…"

"Lydia, we're going to Eldergleam Sanctuary, and that's _all!_" Tralana snapped, though she instantly regretted the harshness of her tone, and went on, more calmly; "I can't even think of going up to High Hrothgar before I know that Ralof is safe. You see that the horses are stabled, and I'll rent us some rooms…"

Before the houscarl could say anymore, Tralana crossed the porch and entered the inn without a second glance behind her.

* * *

The Vilemyr Inn was a small, modest place, virtually empty save for Tralana and Lydia, and a handsome young Nord fellow with long red hair, who lounged by the fire pit with a plate of bread and fish at his elbow. Wilhelm, the innkeeper and barman, seemed an amiable man, of typical strongly-built, Nordic stock, his crown and jaw covered with a rough, dark blonde stubble. He would often lean over the bar to talk, eagerly with Lydia about her travels (he did not seem aware of who she was,) and his eyes, when they beheld Tralana, looked like they were curiously examining some rare, exotic artefact from a distant land.

"You're an elf of some sort, huh?" he asked, watching Tralana slowly chew the grilled chicken breast she was eating (Though bluntly worded, the question did not seem to have any malice behind it.) "A Wood Elf, maybe? We don't get many people like you wandering through here. Don't get many people at all, as a matter of fact. Ivarstead's pretty isolated. Not much happens here."

"Right you are, Wilhelm!" a haughty voice came from the fire pit. "Why I haven't yet convinced my darling Fastred to leave this dreadful place with me, I've no idea!"

Wilhelm glared slightly over Lydia's shoulder at the young red-haired Nord.

"Maybe it's because three generations of Fastred's family have been born here, Bassianus?" he said, folding his arms, and leaning his elbows on the bar. "Not that you'd care about that…"

"Bassianus?" Tralana said, quietly, looking perplexed at the Nord's distinctly Imperial sounding name.

Wilhelm gave a nod.

"Bassianus Axius," he said, as he poured Lydia another tankard of mead. "Mother was born here, went off and married some Imperial legionnaire in Cyrodiil. Takes after her in appearance, but he acts every bit like one of those big-city, cultured, Imperial snobs! He's courting the Fellstar girl, Fastred, at the farm across the way. She was better off with good old Klimmek, if you ask me…"

"You must have had _some _new visitors pass through here, what with the Greybeards calling from High Hrothgar?" Lydia said, and Tralana bowed her head and gave a quiet groan. "Did you hear them, calling for the Dragonborn?"

Wilhelm's eyes lit up, and his voice took on a hushed, awed tone.

"I did," he said. "It's an exciting moment, for sure. I thought I wouldn't live to see the return of the Dragon Blood on Nirn. But with all these rumours of dragons flying around, well, it's no wonder a Dragonborn walks among us again. I feel we're at the turning point of a great age."

"My friend and I are on our way up to High Hrothgar," Lydia said, and Tralana shot daggers at the Nord. "It'll be her first pilgrimage up the Steps. I feel she has a lot to learn from the Greybeards…"

"That's assuming you can even get an audience with them," Wilhelm tutted, and Tralana looked at him, curiously for an explanation;

"The Greybeards are a solitary lot," Wilhelm went on, sounding as though he were trying to speak in polite terms about a person he despised. "I don't think they've ever wandered outside their monastery. Whenever we've had pilgrims come through here in the past, they've almost all of them come back disappointed. I wonder that those old men even notice what's going on down here."

"Those _old men," _Lydia said, hotly, "are some of the wisest in Tamriel!"

"Oh, I don't deny that!" Wilhelm hastily reassured, casting a nervous look to Lydia's sword. "But some might say they're a little _too _wise. Too quiet and reserved. It's an odd and, if you ask me, rather useless way to live for the sole wielders of one of the greatest power's ever seen on Tamriel. The combined Voices of the Greybeards could destroy any normal man, and reduce him to a pile of ash!"

Tralana felt a stab of anxiety at this, and took a long swig of her drink. Suddenly, the door to the inn crashed open, causing Tralana to jump and spill her tankard. Lydia half rose from her seat, a hand on her sword hilt; but the newcomer turned out to be a young, yellow-haired Nord woman – perhaps eighteen years of age – hurrying over the threshold with a fear-struck, snow-white face, her blue eyes wide with alarm.

"Lynly!" Wilhelm cried, as the young woman came running over to the bar, slamming her hands down on the wood. "What in the name of Stendarr…?"

"I think I saw it again! That…_ghost!" _the young woman said, pointing, frantically towards the tavern door. "It was over by the Barrow!"

Lydia's tankard stopped half-way to her lips. Tralana expected Wilhelm to scoff at the girl's story, but instead his face turned just as pale as Lynly's, and he immediately took her wrist, and pulled her behind the bar.

"That thing's evil, Lynly!" he said, sternly. "I told you to keep away from there!"

The girl shamefully hung her head, and twisted her fingers together as Wilhelm released her wrist.

"I'm sorry, I was curious," she mumbled. "I didn't believe the stories. I won't go over there ever again."

"See that you don't," Wilhelm sighed, placing a protective hand on the young woman's shoulder. "I promised to keep you safe!"

Lynly smiled, sweetly at the innkeeper, before curtseying, apologetically to Tralana and Lydia, and retrieving a broom from behind the bar to sweep up. Realising that his guests had overheard, Wilhelm immediately went to Tralana and Lydia with a surprising warning.

"Be sure that you keep away from Shroud Hearth Barrow," he said, sincerely. "It's haunted."

Lydia looked up, startled by this revelation, while Tralana only raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Haunted?" she said, not bothering to move from her slouched position against the wall, as she sat, perched on her wooden stool, with her feet resting against the legs of Lydia's seat next to her. "In what way haunted?"

"Ain't much more to tell," Wilhelm said with genuine fear in his eyes. "It's…_haunted! _And you should stay away!"

Seeing the sceptical look that persisted on the elf's face, Wilhelm quickly darted in to a room at the back of the inn, before returning with a small parcel, wrapped in black cloth, and set it down on the bar with a distinct metallic clang. Unravelling the wrappings, he then showed Tralana and Lydia a strangely familiar looking ornament that made the two travellers sit up and exchange glances. It was a beautifully crafted, silver dragon's claw, tipped with long, curved, pointed slivers of deep blue sapphire.

"I found this in an old chest, hidden in a stone niche just outside the Barrow, along with some gold and some ancient jewellery," Wilhelm said, as Tralana and Lydia peered, closely at his find. "Someone, centuries ago, must have left it there as a treasure cache. The moment I took it, I regretted ever touching the thing. I must have angered some guardian spirit, brought a curse down on Ivarstead! I heard bones rattling, the way crypt delvers say the Draugr sound when they move, and ever since then, _phantoms _have been seen roaming up by the Barrow! Look, I've seen one of the spirits with my very own eyes! When it glared at me, I swear it burned right through my soul…"

"Were you drunk?" Tralana said, and Lydia harshly punched her friend in the arm, before turning back to Wilhelm.

"Haven't you thought to return the claw to the Barrow?" she asked, while Tralana clutched her sore arm, and gave Lydia a poisonous look from the corner of her eye.

"Oh, believe me, I'd love nothing better!" Wilhelm shuddered, covering the claw again, as though disgusted by the sight of it; "But I wouldn't dare go near those ruins now. No one in Ivarstead would! That spirit wails and shrieks at anyone who gets too close. Sometimes, people wander in to the Barrow, and never come out…" A sad look came to the Nord's face. "We had a Dark Elf in here almost two years ago now, strangest fellow who ever set foot in this town. His name was Wyndelius, I think. Folks last saw him taking some tools and a few crates in to the Barrow, like he was planning to do some digging there. Never came back. No one heard a whisper from him ever again."

Even Tralana felt a chill from the innkeeper's words…Then she realised that her elbow was resting in her spilled drink.

"Oh, let me get that for you!" Wilhelm said, snapping out of his state of awed horror, and removing a cloth that hung from his belt. His nose wrinkled as he mopped up the milky concoction, which was lumpy with curdled clumps of troll fat.

"Have to say, you Wood Elves have the oddest choice of poison I've ever come across," Wilhelm said, as he rang out the sodden cloth in to a bucket. "What did you say this stuff was called again?"

"Jagga," Tralana said, while Lydia pinched her nose at the foul smell of the rancid drink. "Or the closest thing to it that you can make in Skyrim."

"Yes, I'm afraid I don't have a lot of uses for pig's milk," Wilhelm apologised. "Not enough that I need to stock it, at any rate. Perhaps I could whip you up another one of your…_fine _Valenwood beverages?"

"I doubt it," Tralana said, pushing her empty tankard around the bar. "You Nord's have very different kitchens to us Bosmer."

"Nonsense!" Wilhelm's chest inflated with pride. "I can cook and brew any delicacy in all of Tamriel, from Potage le Manifique to Argonian Ale! Not that my skills are put to much use in this simple town. We might have to improvise on a few ingredients, but I'd be glad to share a drink from the warm, green shores of Valenwood with my welcome guests."

At this, Tralana actually burst out laughing, and Lydia scowled at the Bosmer, who quickly quieted herself and explained.

"That's very kind, but I'm afraid that something such as Rotmeth would be far too strong for your taste."

There was a moment of intense silence, during which Wilhelm and Lydia both simultaneously leaned towards the elf, their eyes narrowing in a meaningful way.

"Oh, _really?_" Wilhelm pressed. "You think us Nords can't handle our drink?"

"I'll have you know I won _three _drinking contests during last year's New Life Festival!" Lydia said with a harshly pointing finger.

The argument continued, while by the fire pit, Bassianus Axius sighed, and stood up.

"If you'll excuse me, I think I'll remove myself from this vulgar display," the Imperial-Nord sniffed, before leaving the inn.

* * *

"You're sure it's _rotten _meat you're after?" Wilhelm said, dubiously, as he searched through the barrels of the Vilemyr Inn kitchen. A kettle of strong salt water was boiling, and Tralana stood back in the kitchen doorway, her arms folded and an eyebrow cocked, thoroughly amused.

"That's right. The meat juices for Rotmeth are usually fermented for weeks beforehand. Not too much for you, I trust?"

Lydia immediately stormed forwards, and began helping Wilhelm rummage through the food barrels.

"Of course not!" she said, defiantly, looking up at the elf. "You think us Nords can't handle a little broth the way we handle our ale?"

"Rotmeth isn't a broth," Tralana said, watching the two Nords continue to search about the kitchen. "I've found Orcs sucked dry by the Hoarvor Ticks after they've passed out from too many mugs of the Rotmeth…"

"New Life Celebration. Three drinking contests. _Champion,_" Lydia said, pointing to herself. "My veins _flowed _with the Black-Briar Mead after that night! Why don't you take a look through these cupboards and see if there's anything that could make this Rotmeth of yours?"

Tralana gave a shrug, and opened up a nearby cupboard which had a strange smell emanating from it, and found several mouldy, scented wooden boxes, and slimy glass jars of what looked to be some rather unpleasant alchemical ingredients. Picking up one of the boxes, Tralana pried off the flaking, mould-encrusted lid, and found a large handful of what seemed to be strips of a tough, blackened meat, their stench reminding her of a wet, mud-soaked hound, or a swamp.

"What's this?" she said, presenting the box to Wilhelm, who had picked up a large side of dripping, raw beef.

"Charred Skeever hide," Wilhelm said, looking a bit apprehensive. "I mostly cook them up and give them to the dogs to chew when I find the pests in my traps in the basement…"

"They'll do," Tralana said, depositing the handful of Skeever hide in to the boiling kettle. "Just pound up that beef, and add it to the mixture. Don't forget the bone marrow. I don't suppose you've got any diluted Basilisk venom or powdered Minotaur's horn, do you?"

Lydia at least permitted herself to look worried at this, while Wilhelm's jaw fell open.

"Um…No, I don't," he stammered, laying the side of beef down on the kitchen table, where he was preparing to pulverise it with a hammer. "Are you sure that…?"

"Ah," Tralana said, rummaging in the pungent cupboard, and taking out another one of the mouldy boxes, along with a yellow-tinted jar; "Fire salts and giant's toe. That should do it. Now all we need is some honey."

"Oh, thank the Divines!" Wilhelm sighed. "I knew there had to be something to sweeten this monstrosity! How much honey should we add?"

He stood ready with the clay honey pot, waiting it seemed to be told to pour the whole amount in to the steaming brown liquid, when Tralana responded;

"Two spoonfuls…"

* * *

It was difficult to say just who started the brawl (difficult to say because no one remembered,) but the second round, the evidence showed, had most definitely been started by either Tralana or Lydia, as the sapphire dragon claw had ended up in Tralana's satchel – Most likely, they eventually decided, as a prize from the obvious gambling match that had taken place among the scattered dice and counters and gold septims on the floor (Tralana secretly did not think that this was how it had gone at all, but she was not about to tell Wilhelm that and let him have his sapphire claw back.) In any case, all three had eventually ended up unconscious, and when Lynly finally awoke them, it was close to midnight. They groggily picked themselves up from the tavern floor, Wilhelm holding a cold flannel that Lynly had brought him to his black eye, Lydia retrieving Eduj from where it was stuck in one of the inn's wooden columns, and Tralana discovering a garnet gemstone in a rather surprising place. She and Lydia swore never to discuss that day again.

The two travellers then wearily made their way to bed, though Lydia was clearly in a worse state than Tralana, and violently vomited in to a bucket, before turning and collapsing on her bed, leaving the bucket to be cleaned up by a disgusted Lynly. Tralana hadn't had Rotmeth in a long time, but she was pleased to see that she had dealt with it better than the two Nords. The strong drink also kept her sleep dark and dreamless for a while, but soon a succession of blurred images began to race through her mind. It was not the usual flying dream, but a number of fleeting glimpses of a dimly lit, stone hall, its elaborate and ancient carvings casting fantastic shadows about the place, and every now and then, Tralana was sure that she had spotted a robed figure or two walking through the shadows. The chamber was filled with a low, constant muttering – Chants said in an ancient language that Tralana only faintly recognised, and suddenly, that familiar roar startled her awake in the darkness of the Vilemyr Inn;

_**"****DOV, AH, KIIN!"**_

Tralana sat, bolt upright on her bed, and her head reeled as a painful reminder of the Rotmeth. With a frustrated sigh, she looked across at Lydia, who was lying, soundly asleep on her own bed on the other side of the room, her breathing heavy, and her face stark white and sickly-looking. Knowing that the Nord would not wake, Tralana pulled on her boots, and, as an afterthought, picked up both her Daedric bow and Sky Fire, and hung her satchel over her shoulder. If the impulse suddenly grabbed her to flee from Ivarstead and leave this talk of dragons and Greybeards and destiny far, far behind, she did not want to let it pass her by, and she knew that coming back in to the room to get her things and seeing Lydia would change her mind.

Quietly, the Bosmer closed the inn door behind her, and walked out on to the porch, looking up in to the clouded night sky, and breathing in the cool air. The aurora wasn't out tonight, but the stars could still be glimpsed through openings in the woolly, crimson-tinted clouds that looked almost like bloodstains on the deep purple heavens. The huge, pale grey crescent of the moon Masser cradled the elegant, white sliver of the smaller Secunda in its curve, the two of them hovering close to the summit of the Throat of the World. Tralana felt a lump in her throat as her eyes fell on the mountain. In spite of everything – in spite of Lydia, Balgruuf, and her search for Ralof – she would have been happy to simply leave then and there, to sneak round to the stables and take Frost, ride away in to the night, and never see the land of Skyrim ever again. But now, as she stared up at the Throat of the World, she felt that it was more than just duty and common decency that was holding her here and binding her to these people.

It was destiny. It froze up her legs, and compelled her to stay with hammerings of a feeling that Tralana couldn't even begin to explain – One that pulsed in her blood, and burned within her, urging her towards the mountain and towards the monastery that she knew to be waiting for her at its snow-covered summit…

Just then, a pale glimmer of something in the corner of Tralana's eye caught her attention, and drew her gaze away from the Throat of the World. It was a figure, walking alone in the night on the mound just above the town, and Tralana's entire body went rigid, and her eyes widened in disbelief as she saw just _what _it was. The figure was too distant to make out a face or any other features, but the thing that had made Tralana notice it was the pale, ethereal glow emanating from it, white and shimmering like the wings of a Luna Moth, and making it stand out, starkly in the night, as it made its way in to the ancient ruins at the top of the mound.

It was Wilhelm's spectre! The ghost of Shroud Hearth Barrow!


	14. Shroud Hearth Depths

**Shroud Hearth Depths**

Tralana was already through the heavy iron doors of the Barrow before she even questioned what on Nirn she was doing. Hadn't her previous experience with some of Skyrim's ancient ruins been a dangerous venture in to crumbling stone vaults filled with traps, bandits, and crypt-dwelling creatures? Hadn't Wilhelm warned her that this very ruin had allegedly claimed the life of at least one lone explorer? So why was she now descending a wooden spiral staircase, thickly carpeted with moss, in to the depths of a dark, dripping stone chamber, past walls that glistened wet in the dim light, their masonry strangled beneath knots of creeping vines? Reason would have compelled her to turn back, had not a strange sight prodded the demon of curiosity. At the bottom of the rotting staircase, the flickering, orange glow of firelight could be seen dancing on the dark stone floor. Carefully choosing her steps, Tralana instinctively drew her bow, and crept in to the dank, musty stone corridor at the bottom of the stairs, finding one of the stone scones burning brightly. Candles glimmered in what seemed to be a shrine up ahead, and Tralana froze as she saw that the tributes had been arranged around another of the disturbingly preserved Draugr corpses. Thankfully, this one did not move.

"_Leave this place…"_

Tralana had notched an arrow and swung round to face the source of the voice in the blink of an eye. She found her bow trained on a closed iron gate, but almost dropped it when she saw the figure that lurked on the other side. It was, unmistakeably, a Dark Elf, but his entire body looked almost transparent, and shimmered with an ethereal light.

"_**Leave **__this place!" _the spectre demanded again, its pale eyes boring in to Tralana.

"Who are you?" Tralana said, fighting to keep her voice firm and unwavering, but the spirit did not seem to hear her. It turned slowly away from the gate, shuffling away in to the shadows of the tomb, and letting its eerie command echo in its wake;

"_Leave…Leave…Leave…"_

Tralana frowned as she lowered her bow. The spectre's voice was wailing and mysterious, but as it walked away, Tralana was sure that she heard a different tone come in to its speech, something that sounded distinctly like a Morrowind accent. The ghost was without doubt a Dunmer, but its warning had been delivered in an otherworldly and…well…_ghostly _voice, devoid of any recognisable accent, right up until that final moment. Narrowing her eyes in suspicion, Tralana put away her bow, and hunted around for the release switch that would open the gate.

What she found was four of them. Clearly, the levers needed to be pulled in a specific order to open the gate, and getting it wrong would, Tralana suspected, as she noted the several odd holes that dotted the room's stone walls, result in a lot of pain. The puzzle was not beyond solvable, however, as Tralana had a very useful hint from the state of the levers themselves. One was covered with wisps of undisturbed, grey cobwebs. The other three had noticeable handprints in the fine layers of dust that covered them. As Tralana pulled each of the three levers, however, causing the gate on the other side of the room to raise itself with a clatter, an odd thought crossed her mind. If all the people of Ivarstead were so terrified of the Barrow, and the only soul to roam its halls was an incorporeal ghost, then who had left those recent handmarks in the dust?

As Tralana passed through the now open gate in to the next chamber, she quickly guessed that Shroud Heath Barrow would prove to be an even trickier and more dangerous place to navigate than Bleak Falls Barrow, as unfastening the sheathed Sky Fire from around her waist and tossing it forward on to a suspicious looking plate that she noticed on the floor revealed a nasty spear trap, the long, barbed iron points shooting out of the wall in a way that would have impaled any careless adventurer. Tralana carefully avoided the plate, picking up Sky Fire as she passed it, and continued down the stone steps that led deeper in to the Barrow, her way lit by flickering candles. At the bottom of the steps lay two doors, one of iron, and the other of heavy black stone, carved with that same unusual depiction of a dragon's head that she had seen on the Dragonstone and in Bleak Falls Barrow. Tralana might have wondered which way to go, had her pointed ears not alerted her to the sound of light, retreating footsteps behind the iron door.

Tralana kept low and trod silently as she opened the door and found herself in a small, candlelight corridor, very much like the others, but just to the left, at the end of the corridor, was a more brightly lit doorway, leading in to a small room. There stood the pale spectre, his form utterly bizarre in the bright lamplight – He no longer seemed to shimmer and glow like a moonbeam, but instead looked more tangible, almost as though he was _reflecting _light, like the sheen off a pale blue gem. The spectre looked up at Tralana's presence with an angry growl, and drew a war axe from its side.

"_You are not welcome here!" _it shrieked, and charged forward with a blood-curdling cry, weapon raised.

Without a second thought, Tralana unsheathed her sword, and thrust it forward, praying that the ghost would not prove immune to her attacks. To her surprise, the fiery hot blade plunged through flesh, and drops of very real, crimson blood fell to the ground. The ghost gave a dying groan, and staggered back in to the room, collapsing to the floor with a thud. Tralana then walked forward, stunned, as the defeated spectre suddenly transformed before her eyes in to the corpse of a Dark Elf man, clad in bear and fox furs. This was no ghost! He had been flesh and blood, a living being! But how had he managed to pull off the illusion?

As Tralana sheathed Sky Fire, she looked about the small, stone room, and noted the comforting fire that burned in the scratched out fireplace, along with the goat horn lamp that hung from the ceiling. The room also held a few other odd things that were clearly not ancient relics, such as a bedroll that had been lain out on the floor, next to a well-used alchemy station that smouldered and simmered, surrounded by crates of food and ingredients that had been packed in with Ice Wraith teeth to keep them fresh. A couple of pickaxes and a shovel were propped up in the corner, but looked as though they had not been used for quite some time, and on the old stone table was an alchemist's satchel, a couple of tall, bell-shaped, deep blue potion bottles, and a leather bound journal.

After searching the Dark Elf man for any clues (or septims,) and finding nothing, Tralana turned her attention to the journal, and found a name scrawled inside the front cover – _'Wyndelius Gartharian.'_

Wyndelius…The Dunmer who Wilhelm had said disappeared in to the Barrow almost two years ago! Thankfully, Wyndelius had written his journal in Tamrielic, unlike the Dark Elf from Bleak Falls Barrow, and so Tralana was able to read the strange account in full;

'_4E 200, 18__th__ Morning Star_

_I've set up camp inside the Barrow. This has to be the place. According to all of my research, the burial chamber should be located here. All I need is some time undisturbed to find the claw. It must be hidden here somewhere.'_

With a frown, Tralana reached a hand in to her satchel, and pulled out the sapphire dragon claw that she had 'won' from Wilhelm. The innkeeper had said that he had found it near the Barrow. Tralana contemplated the markings in the claw's palm for a moment – a moth, an owl, and a wolf – then continued reading the journal;

'_4E 200, 25__th__ Morning Star_

_Had a close call today with that fool Wilhelm. He came close to entering the Barrow, but I was able to scare him off by rattling some pottery shards in a bag. These people are far too superstitious for their own good. _

_Gives me an idea…_

_4E 200, 28__th__ Morning Star_

_After a few failures, I've come up with a mixture that should do the trick. The glow is perfect – I should look exactly like one of the supposed spirits the people of Ivarstead believe is haunting the Barrow. Going to test it out tomorrow._

_4E 200, 29__th__ Morning Star_

_Success! It worked better than I could have imagined. All I had to do was wander about the entrance to the Barrow at night and wave my arms about. I had to stop myself from laughing aloud as they ran away! This should keep them at bay while I continue searching for the claw.'_

Tralana sniffed as she looked up at the dead body of the Dunmer lying in the middle of the floor. So, it had all been a hoax. Wyndelius had come here to excavate the Barrow and had concocted a scheme to keep the people of Ivarstead away. And the mixture he had mentioned…

Tralana turned to the blue potion bottles that sat on the table. She uncorked one and gave it a sniff, wrinkling her nose slightly at its odd smell, which at first seemed sweet and pleasant, but then changed to something like the murk of a tomb. The potion was a delicate, sea green in colour, almost blue, and shimmered bewitchingly, like fine gold dust. Its shimmer was so dazzling, the liquid might even have been mistaken at first glance for a glittering powder. It was a very strange mixture, unlike anything Tralana had ever seen, and she curiously went over to the alchemy station to see if she could judge what ingredients Wyndelius had used to make it. Lunar Moth wings were scattered about, as well as traces of what looked like vampire dust, and a luminous Torchbug thorax. Tralana was rather more concerned, however, with the wooden bowls of glow dust and thick, gloopy ectoplasm that she found. Those ingredients could only be harvested from very strange creatures – creatures that no one in Tamriel knew much about – and if Wyndelius had been consuming them every day for months on end…

Tralana flipped through the journal, noticing that the Dunmer's handwriting was becoming increasingly more unsteady and hard to read;

'_4E 200, 11__th__ Hearthfire_

_Almost half a year has passed, and no sign of the claw or any clues as to its whereabouts. This is becoming maddening! It HAS to be here! Can't risk hiring any assistance, so I'll have to continue alone.'_

Tralana felt an unsettling prickling on the back of her neck. She flipped on through Wyndelius's journal, the pages of which were becoming blotched with careless spots of ink, and the entries less and less frequent, with only strange, abstract images sketched in the spaces in between;

'_4E 200, 20__th__ Sun's Dusk_

_It isn't here. It can't be here. This isn't right. It must be the people of Ivarstead. They must be on to my ruse, and they're toying with me. They want to find the burial chamber on their own and keep the riches for themselves!'_

The next entry was only legible in places, and Tralana felt a building sense of horror as she read the disconnected sentences;

'_4E 200, 18__th__ Evening Star_

_Why? Why are they tormenting me? Why not just destroy me?..._

…_Who am I?..._

…_My head is becoming clouded…_

…_Can't remember anything…_

…_Have to read my journal to remember…_

…_Am I a part of this tomb?..._

…_WHAT'S BECOMING OF ME?...'_

The final entry in the journal, once Tralana had read it, made her shudder and quickly close the book, even though only one, horrifying part of it was clear enough to read;

'_1E 1050_

…_They shall not take the Webspinner's Crown. They shall all pay dearly for their crimes. Any who set foot within these walls will taste my wrath, my power. I AM THE GUARDIAN OF SHROUD HEARTH BARROW! All who oppose me will fall…'_

Tralana cast one last look to the Dunmer, lying before the fire in a gleaming pool of deep red blood, before she smashed both of the remaining bottles of the potion that had driven him mad. Picking up Wyndelius's journal and stowing it in her satchel as proof to bring to Wilhelm that the ghost of Shroud Hearth Barrow did not exist, Tralana turned, quietly, and left the sad room and the body of the crazed Dunmer behind.

* * *

As expected, the black stone door opened to reveal a strikingly familiar long, elaborately carved, stone hallway, the light of stone scones that had seemingly been burning for thousands of years flickering on its walls. The hallway bore images of soldiers pouring over a land of great, burning mountains; of huge, winged, scaly dragons swooping, fearsomely through the air; and of men bowing to an impressive, robed figure, surrounded by tongues of flame and power. And at the end of the hallway stood a large, round, stone door, with three rings in its centre, each ring encircling another, until the smallest encircled the stone imprint of a dragon's claw. Claw in hand, Tralana moved the stone rings until they displayed the correct symbols, and then fitted the sapphire dragon claw in to the keyhole. The door slowly lowered, and Tralana stowed the claw back in to her satchel, notched an arrow in her bow, and made her way down the broken, moss-dappled steps in the stone passage.

* * *

Shroud Hearth Barrow was a bizarrely constructed and perilous place – its vast, secret network of winding passages leading to large, booby-trapped burial chambers, and slippery ascents up dark, wooden staircases, teetering above black pools of leaked rainwater – but by far the strangest thing that Tralana came across was through an iron door that led her out on to a wide, stone ledge, overlooking a large chamber. Crouching behind the wooden boards that shielded the ledge, Tralana peered between the cracks that were starting to riddle the damp, worm-eaten wood, looking down in to the room below, and her eyes widened to the size of an owl's at what she saw. In the middle of the room was what looked like a large pool, not filled with water, but with something thick, shiny and greasy, like bear fat. The surface of the shallow pool rippled with the movement of its occupants – At least half a dozen walking, growling, suitably-armed _skeletons, _each carrying an ancient Nordic sword or bow_. _They were not Draugr, only bare, white bones that clicked and clattered around the greasy pool, their empty, hollow eye sockets housing pinpricks of glowing blue light for eyes.

Tralana was horrified by the sight of them! She had heard of necromancers reanimating the dead, but these were not zombies – They were just bones! However, as her sharp eyes fell on the clay lanterns hanging above the pool, she realised that this may in fact have been to her advantage. The creatures were clearly frail, and would be easy to take down. Aiming her bow at one of the lanterns, Tralana then released her bowstring, and watched the arrow sail through the air, knocking the lantern loose, and sending it plummeting down in to the middle of the pool, where it smashed. The oily substance that filled the pool did indeed turn out to be bear fat, as it instantly burst in to flames, engulfing the marching skeletons, and causing them to collapse in a great tangle of blackened bones. Tralana sheathed her bow, and made her way around the stone ledge, until she reached another iron door.

The Barrow's twisting corridors led her continuously on, attempting to surprise her at every moment with a pressure plate or a tripwire. Tralana was almost caught out at one point, as she blundered in to a tripwire and fell forward, grazing her elbows on the stone floor. This was little, however, compared to what would have happened to her had she remained on her feet, as Tralana rolled over on to her back to see three, sharp, steel pendulums swinging directly above her. The Bosmer carefully crawled her way out from beneath the movement of the blades, and pressed on through the Barrow's musty, ruined catacombs, discovering yet another iron door. This one opened to reveal a long, narrow room with a high, vaulting ceiling, divided directly down the middle by a large pool of water. Two raised platforms stood on either side of the watery gap, but only one could be reached via a rather unsteady ramp, formed of lashed together, rotting, wooden logs.

What Tralana found up on the platform seemed to be a very curious, ancient Nordic puzzle. On the floor was a large, round pressure plate, surrounded by four stone pillars, each bearing the same carved symbol – A coiling serpent. As Tralana examined the pillars, however, she found that pushing them caused them to turn on their base, revealing two other symbols – A whale and an eagle. A large set of ancient wooden doors, slimy with dark green smears of wet moss and mould, led in to a small, dark, empty room, holding nothing but another large, round pressure plate on the floor. Tralana looked about for any sign of the symbols carved anywhere else on the platform, as she was sure that, as with the puzzle door, getting the symbols in a specific order was the key to opening some secret passage that would lead her closer to the Barrow's secret. But there was no sign of them anywhere. The only thing that could be seen in the small room was the pressure plate. Hesitantly, Tralana extended a foot towards it, and quickly pressed it down before hastily stepping back. Nothing happened. She tried again, this time leaving her foot on the plate for a second longer, and started at the sound of a loud grating noise, coming from the walls of the room. When nothing flew out at her, however, Tralana deemed that the plate was safe, and stepped fully on to it.

The walls of the small room shook, and Tralana stared in amazement as four secret panels were slowly revealed, their stone coverings sliding back to reveal, not secret doors or passageways, but four carved symbols – A whale, an eagle, a snake, and another whale. Tralana hurried outside the room back on to the platform overlooking the water, turned the four pillars to display their correct symbols, and then stepped with confidence on to the second pressure plate. She felt a rush of triumph as a wooden drawbridge descended with a crack over the watery divide, joining the two platforms together, and granting her a path that led deeper in to the Barrow.

Drawing Sky Fire in determination, Tralana then plunged on in to Shroud Hearth's depths.

* * *

This, Tralana thought, must have been the burial chamber that Wyndelius Gartharian had been searching for. It was far grander than the other chambers of the Barrow, with a stone walkway, littered with a sea of mysteriously burning, dim candles, built in the centre of the room, surrounded by a pool of deep water. Numerous black sarcophaguses were placed along the rising stone tiers of the chamber, until one stood higher than the rest, illuminated by the strong light of the large, stone lamp that hung above it, as the focal point and centrepiece of the burial chamber. Tralana felt a distinct sense of foreboding as she crept forward with Sky Fire, and as it turned out, her instincts were not deceiving her.

A series of coffin lids sprang in to the air, and out clambered more of the sinister, walking skeletons, their joints creaking and their jaws rattling, brandishing their ancient weapons at the Bosmer intruder. Tralana turned and swung Sky Fire straight through the attacking skeleton closest to her, before pivoting round, and bringing the blade down with a crack on to the skull of another. She heard the whoosh of an arrow passing near her head, and glanced up to see a skeleton archer standing a short distance away. Slamming Sky Fire's hilt in to the face of the nearest skeleton, Tralana grabbed the creature's iron shield as it collapsed, and dived for the floor, skidding forwards on the shield, and passing beneath the attack of two other skeletons, heading straight for the skeleton archer. She smashed straight through the creature, before snatching up its bow from its tangle of bones, turning, crouched, on the balls of her feet, and firing two arrows straight in to the eye sockets of the remaining skeletons.

The hollow clatter of their bones on the floor faded, leaving the chamber in an eerie silence. Tralana cast the ancient bow aside, picking up Sky Fire from where she had dropped it, and slowly got to her feet. Something wasn't right. It had all seemed a little too easy to her…

With a loud crack, the sarcophagus at the top of the room burst open, and Tralana spun round, with Sky Fire thrust out before her. A horrible, cold sensation filled her stomach as a decaying figure climbed from the sarcophagus – Not another skeleton, but a Draugr. This one resembled the Draugr Tralana had taken Eduj from in Bleak Falls Barrow, and she remembered Lydia describing them to her as Draugr Deathlords, said to be long-dead warriors of high repute, buried in ancient times. The Deathlord turned its glowing gaze on Tralana, and the Bosmer almost trembled as the vile creature gave what sounded horrifyingly like a low, rumbling laugh. Tralana summoned an ice spike in to her hand, and hurled it at the Draugr, the icicle plunging in to its chest, but having little effect on it. With a growl, the Draugr drew its sword, and stiffly advanced down the stone steps towards Tralana.

Tralana decided to take advantage of the creature's slow movement, and sheathed Sky Fire, drawing her bow instead, but no sooner had she notched an arrow, than a wave of blue light suddenly came hurtling towards her;

_**"ZUN, HAAL VIIK!"**_

Tralana's bow was suddenly wrenched from her grasp, and she watched in horror as it flew over the side of the stone walkway, and disappeared in to the dark water below. The Draugr Deathlord stalked towards her, sword raised, and Tralana did the only thing that she could think of…

_**"FUS!"**_

The Draugr staggered back, and Tralana quickly drew Sky Fire, and lunged at the creature, slashing through its armour, and drawing out a burst of dry dust. The Draugr's sword came down on Tralana's shoulder, only just breaking through her armour, but still causing her to cry out in pain, and she gritted her teeth and swung her sword round at the creature again. This time, the blow was more accurate, striking the Draugr in the face, and Tralana, with a renewed burst of energy, clutched the hilt of her sword with both hands, spun round, and thrust the burning, enchanted blade straight through the Draugr's neck, severing its head clean from its shoulders. She almost fell to her knees as the headless Draugr fell, limply over the edge of the walkway, splashing in to the cold, dark water, and sinking below the surface.

Tralana wiped the sweat from her brow as she sheathed Sky Fire, cursing herself for ever choosing to enter the Barrow. What reason did she have for venturing down here in the first place? She had found Wilhelm's spectre, taken his journal as proof, and there didn't seem to be any trace of the great treasure Wyndelius had suspected of being down here – Only traps and walking skeletons!

But as Tralana stood, looking, forlornly down in to the water that had swallowed her Daedric bow, a strange but familiar feeling came over her. It was a pounding in the air – An urging, inaudible chant that stirred her blood, and drew her up the steps towards the Draugr Deathlord's coffin, where she found a small, wooden ramp, that led up in to a roughly cut, dark tunnel.

Something was calling her.

* * *

The vast chamber behind the burial crypt of Shroud Hearth Barrow was a magnificent sight, its vaulting, ivy-strewn walls carved with some of the most elaborate designs Tralana had ever seen. She had witnessed Bosmer craftsmen over 100 years of age etching the last patterns on to sets of leather armour that had been their entire life's work – there was no higher regarded art in all of Valenwood than the Elder Armour – but this chamber was a triumph even greater than that. And all it housed was a single, large, ancient chest, and a great, stone wall.

A Word Wall.

Dragging her feet, Tralana approached the Wall, and let her eyes come to rest on the first word that she noticed, one that's sound seemed to wash over her like the gentle tide of the ocean on a golden beach, soothing her, and making her long to understand its true meaning;

"_Drem…"_

* * *

Lydia awoke with a start to the sound of a loud thump, and struggled to pull herself up out of bed, but was forced back down by a wave of sudden nausea that threatened to make her fill another bucket for Lynly to clean up. It was still dark, but not the pitch black of deep in the night, and she guessed that it was almost dawn. Blearily rubbing her eyes, Lydia squinted in to the shadows to see Tralana standing in the middle of the room, looking weary and haggard. The Nord smiled a little to herself, wondering if the elf had been throwing up because of that vile Rotmeth, but a second later, her eyes widened and her mouth fell open at the sight of a very ancient (and undoubtedly very valuable,) set of iron armour lying in the middle of the floor. The breastplate was an elaborately worked, ribbed piece, complete with heavy pauldrons, and a fur-trimmed, belted leather tunic underneath. There was also a pair of elegantly shaped gauntlets, sturdy boots, lined with fur, iron armbands, etched with scrolling designs of gleaming gold, and an iron helmet, crowned with a pair of small deer antlers.

Lydia looked up at Tralana, stunned, and suddenly noticed that the Bosmer was wearing two gold necklaces around her neck – one encrusted with rubies, and the other set with diamonds – while a silver and moonstone circlet sat on her brow. The Bosmer reached out a hand, covered in jewelled rings, and dropped a handful of precious gemstones on to the end table that stood beside her bed, before dropping down on to the fur blankets without a word.

Lydia opened her mouth, wanting to say something (if she only knew what,) but Tralana, lying face down on her bed, instantly raised a hand.

"Not now, Lydia," her muffled voice said. "Later."


	15. Eldergleam Sanctuary

**Eldergleam Sanctuary**

Tralana and Lydia did not stir from their beds until rather late in to the morning, but eventually woke, sluggishly, and made their painful efforts to pack up their things and once more brave the harsh roads of Skyrim. Wilhelm was stood behind the bar, groaning regretfully, but as Tralana presented him with the journal of Wyndelius Gartharian, a rather more healthy (or perhaps embarrassed,) colour came back in to the Nord's pale and sickly face, and he thanked his visitor wholeheartedly for what she had done (He even invited her to return to the inn to brew another batch of Rotmeth in celebration, though Tralana noticed that he looked rather relieved when she politely declined.) As the two travellers collected their horses from the stables, Lydia admired her new set of ancient Nordic armour, and was almost too enthralled with the gift to berate Tralana for venturing in to Shroud Hearth Barrow alone.

_Almost._

"You should have woken me!" the shield-maiden said, sternly, as she mounted Bruna and donned her new helmet, the antlers making her look suitably imposing. "I am your sword and your shield! If I fail to protect you, then I am not fulfilling my duties as your housecarl…"

"Lydia, I survived, didn't I?" Tralana sighed, fondly touching the gold and ruby necklace that hung about her neck (It was one of the pieces that she had retrieved from the Barrow, and she could not resist wearing it, even if the pretty bauble might have acted as a glittering target for any bandit highwaymen.) "Besides, I can't imagine you'd have been of much use as you were. The Rotmeth had taken its toll on you…"

Lydia's face faltered and blustered, as the two of them began to walk their horses along the road and out of Ivarstead.

"Nords are never more battle-ready than when we're full of drink!" she argued, proudly. "Even if that drink _is _a vile Elvish concoction that we never want to taste again!"

"You remember what it tastes like?" Tralana said with a toothy grin. "You fraud! I _thought _I spied you spitting yours out in to Wilhelm's tankards…"

The housecarl opened her mouth to protest, but then noticed the mischievous glimmer in her companion's eye, and laughed before urging her horse forward in to a canter.

* * *

Despite being within the ever-reaching ash shadow of the destructive Red Mountain, the windswept plains of Eastmarch were a fertile and strangely beautiful place. True, the pine trees were much thinner here, and a veritable graveyard of blanched animal bones littered the jagged rocks and dull scrublands, giving the place an overall air of bleakness, but the steaming, volcanic valley that Tralana and Lydia now found themselves crossing was alive with some of Skyrim's rarest flowers, blooming in fiery reds, magnificent blues, sumptuous purples, and brilliant golds, amidst a backdrop of ashen-grey. Peculiar herbs and berries were also plentiful, making the valley a rich garden for any alchemist, and the bubbling geysers that dotted the landscape were popular bathing spots with both mudcrabs and, as Tralana and Lydia had discovered, travelling hunters (They had come across a band of them encamped near one of the hot springs, enjoying the relief of the hot water in the cold climate.)

Still, the two riders were far from at ease. Sunset was almost upon them, and Tralana noticed that Lydia kept glancing, nervously up at the close mountain range that stood, blackly against the north-eastern sky.

"What is it?" Tralana asked her housecarl.

Lydia's expression was grave and fearful, and she indicated the shadowy mountains with a nod of her head.

"Bonestrewn Crest," she murmured, darkly. "Said to be one of the old dragon lairs, where the Dragon Cult brought sacrifices for their masters. I wonder if…?"

But Tralana's attention was drawn away by a sudden, savage roar that she heard a short distance away from them. It was not a dragon (thank the gods,) but still sounded far too large and far too close for comfort. Motioning to Lydia to be quiet, Tralana swiftly dismounted from Frost, and crept to the edge of the large geyser that churned and bubbled near them, throwing up a dense column of white steam. Through the haze, Tralana could just make out two battling figures on the far side of the geyser – One appeared to be an elk, and the other was unmistakeably a large, hulking, brown bear. The beast snarled and bellowed, pinning its prey between its huge paws, claws sinking and teeth tearing, until it began devouring the dead elk on the ground. Lydia, who had dismounted from Bruna and shuffled up beside Tralana, quickly drew her hunting bow.

"No!" Tralana hissed, throwing out a hand. "We shouldn't risk tangling with her at the moment. We'll hide the horses, and continue on to the Sanctuary on foot. How much further?"

Lydia did not need to reply, however, as Tralana's question was answered a moment later by the sound of a restless stamping in the nearby undergrowth. The two of them turned, peering up a small, grassy slope in to a pine-shrouded glade, ablaze with a particularly beautiful flower that Tralana did not recognise – It was bright gold, with rounded, purple-veined petals that spread out almost in the shape of wings, with a long, curling, bright yellow tongue of sorts blooming in their centre. And amongst the golden flowers, tied beneath one of the shady pines, stood a very familiar black mare.

"He's found it alright," Lydia whispered, nodding towards Allie. "The cave entrance is just up there."

Tralana was surprised. A cave? She had expected some ancient, stone-built temple, like Shroud Hearth or Bleak Falls Barrow. The Nords seemed to be especially fond of building great stone monuments.

They passed through the flowering glade, leading the horses along with them, and immediately stumbled upon a pretty little hidden nook, close to where Allie had been left. It was a shrine, placed on a stone pillar, and surrounded by offerings of flowers, rare spices, and gold septims. At the centre of the shrine was an elegantly crafted moonstone statue, set with a flawless blue sapphire, and with two candles glowing in its centre, like eyes. At first glance, it appeared to be a depiction of a beautifully blooming flower, but as Tralana looked closer at the carvings, she saw that the flowing lines came together to form a bird, with wings out-stretched. It was a shrine to Kynareth. Suddenly, a strong draft disturbed the stillness of the golden flowers, making them ripple like the ocean, and Tralana glanced down to see the yawning, black entrance of an almost hidden cave, a cool breeze sighing out and betraying the presence of the depths below.

With a knowing glance to each other, the two adventurers tethered their horses to the same tree as Allie, and drew their swords, before stooping down to pass through the low cave entrance. This was a Sanctuary of peace, but they doubted that the wanted Stormcloak would come quietly.

* * *

The smell of damp moss and earth almost overpowered Tralana as she and Lydia made their way down in to the Sanctuary. The Bosmer's eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the narrow passage, and her hand fumbled along the wet, jagged stone wall, seeking guidance as the path twisted left and right.

"Mind your step," Tralana hissed to Lydia, her feet carefully creeping forwards along the crumbling dirt and pebbles. "It's rather – "

There was a slight shriek, followed by a clatter, and Tralana felt debris brushing past her legs as something slid along the path behind her. She sighed;

" – Steep."

Lydia grunted, and clambered to her feet, and the two of them continued down the dark passageway, until a familiar rushing noise met Tralana's ears. It sounded like falling water. Cool ferns swamped the two as they rounded the final bend in the path, and they were forced to wade their way forward through a mass of green, towards the delicate, misty light that could now be seen up ahead. When they emerged, Tralana almost cried out in astonishment.

Eldergleam Sanctuary was a vast and magnificent underground garden, no doubt thriving thanks to the rich conditions created by the ash cloud of the distant Red Mountain. The bleak and windy, grey valley above concealed a grotto which rivalled even the beauty of Elden Grove, the sacred site in Valenwood of Tamriel's precious First Tree. Misted sunbeams poured in from openings in the cavern ceiling, appearing blue and hazy as they shone through the foaming waterfalls that cascaded down in to the system of rushing streams, roaring amidst the moss-covered rocks. A roughly marked, sandy path cut through the fertile green mounds of the cavern, which threw up bursts of volcanic steam, and bloomed with flora of every kind – Purple thistles and Hanging Moss, red Creep Clusters and Jazbay grapes, silver juniper trees and mountain flowers of every shade. The cavern even sported a population of jewel-bright butterflies and glowing Torchbugs, hopping from plant to plant, and flitting through the humid air.

But the crowning spectacle of the Sanctuary was without doubt the huge, magnificent tree that grew in its centre, its thick, reaching roots coiled around seemingly every nook of the mounds and rocks that surrounded it, like the protecting arms of a mother reaching out and drawing her children to her. The bark of the tree shimmered with a colour that could be described as either silver or gold, just like the poor Gildergreen in Whiterun. Unlike the Gildergreen, however, the branches and trunk of this tree spread wider than any Tralana had yet seen in Skyrim (it was still extremely modest, however, compared to the mighty graht-oaks of Valenwood,) and it bloomed with a stunning crown of subtle pink flowers and fruits.

Tralana was so enraptured by the beauty of the Sanctuary, and by the quiet hum of life that she could feel all around her, that she almost forgot the very reason they had entered it. A distant shout of horror, however, reminded her of their search, and she threw a quick and urgent glance to Lydia, before racing up the sandy path in the direction of the cry. Then, out of the clouds of volcanic steam, an angry figure suddenly jumped down and blocked their way. It was a short, dark Breton man, dressed in simple traveller's clothes, and brandishing an iron dagger at the two newcomers.

"Don't come any closer!" the Breton yelled, fiercely, though his voice wavered and his hand visibly shook as he held the dagger. "I'm warning you!"

Tralana tried to address him, but before she could say anything, Lydia had leapt in front of her, performing the 'shield' duty of her office, before quickly going on to perform the 'sword' part as well, as she knocked the Breton's dagger from his hand, leaving a shallow gash across his wrist.

"Stand down!" the Nord fumed, pointing Eduj at her now disarmed opponent; "Or I'll kill you where you stand!"

"Lydia, this isn't a bandit raid!" Tralana said, sternly, grabbing the hilt of Lydia's sword, and forcing her to lower it from its intimidating position at the Breton's throat. Still, she was not about to overlook the fact that the man had just tried to attack them, which meant there was clearly trouble within the Sanctuary.

"Now you, tell us what's going on," she demanded, fixing the man with a burning stare.

The Breton shrank back from her gaze, and nervously rang his hands together, but his tone was imploring, and obviously hopeful that the travellers would help;

"The Sanctuary is under attack," he began, pointing, frantically towards the Eldergleam Tree. "A man – a Nord – burst in with some kind of weapon, and is attacking the Eldergleam. We tried to stop him, but he threatened us all back, said he was here to do _Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak's work_. Please, you have to hurry!"

The man turned, and took off running up the winding path, beckoning for Tralana and Lydia to follow. The two looked at each other with identical expressions of confusion, before hastening after him. Ralof was here on behalf of Ulfric Stormcloak? How? Why?

The terrified Breton led them right to where the path passed directly beneath the seat of the Eldergleam Tree, its heavy branches fanned out above them, with beams of ethereal sunlight shining through the blossoms, making them look almost like an overhanging blanket of shimmering rubies and amethysts. Further up the path was a dense cluster of Eldergleam's gigantic roots, blocking any access to the tree itself. However, as Tralana and Lydia watched, one of the roots suddenly rose in to the air, bending back from the path, and a figure in an iron breastplate appeared, battling his way through the thick roots, with a savage looking black dagger in his hand. It was Ralof. As he brought the blade of what was undoubtedly Nettlebane down on to the roots in front of him, Tralana could feel a shift in the air of the Sanctuary. Something wasn't right. Her insides seemed to scream out in horror as she saw the roots of the Eldergleam lift further, allowing Ralof closer to the trunk. The foolish Nord had no idea what he was doing…

"We have to stop him!" Tralana said, more to herself than to anyone else, as two more worshippers at the Sanctuary suddenly approached them – A young Nord man and woman.

"What is it, Maurice?" the man asked, casting a nervous glance to Tralana and Lydia, and protectively gripping the hand of the woman at his side. "Who are these people?"

"We're here for the Nord," Lydia said, jerking her head towards Ralof, who was still hacking away at Eldergleam's roots, oblivious of their presence. Tralana could feel a heavy sense of apprehension growing within her, and all she wanted was to scream out at Ralof to stop what he was doing before…

"Kynareth be praised!" the Nord man sighed, exchanging a relieved look with the woman. "We simply came here to enjoy the beautiful sights and sounds of this Sanctuary. We didn't expect that…_madman _to come in here and…"

"What does he want?" Tralana asked, hurriedly, glancing up at Ralof, who had by now almost reached the trunk of the Eldergleam. "Did he say?"

"He simply said that he was here to perform a service for the Jarl, and that we were not to interfere," the Nord woman said, visible tears welling in her eyes. "Please, we're full supporters of the Stormcloak cause, but we can't allow such a desecration of the Sanctuary! I beg of you, don't let him harm the tree! No good can come of it!"

"What do you mean?" Lydia said with a frown, stepping, intimidatingly towards the couple (Her sword arm had risen again as soon as they had mentioned they were Stormcloak supporters.) "What will happen if he gets to the tree?"

"The Sanctuary will defend itself," Tralana muttered, and in an instant, she had flown past Lydia, and was sprinting up the winding, sandy path, clambering over rocks and ducking beneath the now overhanging roots, as she followed in Ralof's footsteps. Lydia looked, wildly about for a moment, before dashing after her Thane, though she had no idea what had prompted the elf's terrified urgency.

* * *

Further up the rocky pinnacle on which Eldergleam stood, overlooking the entire Sanctuary, Ralof slashed at the last root blocking his path, and watched it rise in to the air, as though in fear of him; or, more likely, of the weapon that he wielded. With a twinge of guilt, the Nord glanced down at the ancient dagger in his hand, hooked and pointed like a black thorn, and offered a silent prayer of apology to Kynareth for using such a thing in Her Sanctuary. But, he had important work to do. Walking forwards across the thick carpet of emerald green moss, Ralof finally found himself stood before the very trunk of Eldergleam, its shining bark smooth and flawless like a mirror. There was, however, a slight knothole where he thought he would be able to drive in the tip of Nettlebane and draw out some of the sap. Kneeling before the tree, Ralof carefully positioned the ebony dagger, and pulled out a purple glass potion bottle from a fur pouch at his hip, holding it ready to catch the sap as it ran down the trunk of the tree…

"_Stop!"_

Ralof didn't even have time to look up before he was suddenly knocked to the ground. Nettlebane flew from his hand, and the potion bottle rolled away across the moss, as a pair of thin, long-fingered hands wrapped themselves around his wrists, pinning them on either side of his head. Dazed, Ralof looked up, and found himself staring in to a pair of exceptionally dark, angry, almond-shaped eyes, while the weight of a body held him, forcibly down on the ground.

"What do you think you're doing?" a familiar voice demanded, and Ralof raised his eyebrows in surprise as he recognised just who it was sitting on top of him.

"I could ask the same of you," he grunted, struggling to lift his head to see if there was any way he could throw the Bosmer off (He hadn't expected such a lean, tiny little elf to be so strong! _This _would certainly be embarrassing, if his fellow Stormcloak brothers and sisters ever heard of it.)

Just then, another figure came running in to view, pointing a long, jagged black sword, which glowed with a shimmering blue enchantment, down at his chest.

"Did you touch the tree?" a feminine voice demanded (though Ralof could not see much of the warrior's face under her iron helmet, which was topped with a pair of small deer antlers.)

Confused, the Stormcloak looked up at his elven captor, who was still pinning his hands, furiously to his sides, her teeth grinding together with the effort.

"And who's this?" he asked, nodding to the impressively armoured shield-maiden. "Made a new friend?"

"Answer her question!" Tralana snapped, giving the Nord's wrists an exceptionally painful squeeze. "Did you harm the tree at all?"

Ralof attempted to get his fingers around the Bosmer's wrists so that he could retaliate, but found that, held down as he was, he couldn't quite reach. However, as the elf seemed to be making no move to cut his throat (though Ralof was all too aware of the sword she was wearing, which he could feel pressed flat against his leg,) he gave up his efforts at a struggle, and decided to see just why she had followed him all this way.

"No," he replied finally. "I didn't have time to harvest the sap before you barrelled in to me. Now, what in the name of Talos are _you _doing here? I was sure you'd head for the forests as soon as you'd delivered word to the Jarl about Helgen. If it's the horse you're after, I'm afraid I'm not giving her back. Allie belongs to my family."

"Gerdur will be worried about you," Tralana muttered, giving the Nord a sour look, and moving herself off of him, allowing him to stand up. "I don't suppose you told her where you were going?"

"What business is it of yours?" Ralof sneered, as he dusted himself down. Granted, he was grateful to the elf for saving his life, but she had shown no interest in joining the Stormcloaks, and was far too reticent about her past for him to really trust her. She had no right to follow him here, nor to take any concern in his family. "Gerdur knows I'm part of Ulfric's army. She'll have expected me to head straight back to Windhelm as soon my injury was healed. And that's just what I intend to do, once I've collected the sap from the Eldergleam…"

"_Don't!" _Tralana cried out, kicking Nettlebane away as Ralof reached down to pick it up. The Nord turned, angrily to her, his hand on his war axe, but a moment later, the elf was blocked from his view, and a glistening, black steel blade was just inches from his face.

"Stand down!" the shield-maiden barked, her blue eyes flashing with anger. Ralof drew his war axe, and smashed it against her blade in a challenge, but Tralana instantly seized the warrior by her shoulder, and drew her back.

"Wait!" she insisted, shooting a warning glance to Ralof.

While the two Nords reluctantly sheathed their weapons, the Bosmer turned to the great tree, and suddenly knelt before it, her palms against the trunk. Ralof blinked and stared. The shield-maiden next to him looked just as perplexed.

"What are you doing?" Ralof asked, taking a step towards Tralana, but she loudly hushed him, and the shield-maiden roughly motioned the Stormcloak back.

As Ralof curiously looked on, Tralana remained on her knees before the tree, muttering something that he either could not quite hear or could not understand, while her hands rested against the smooth, glistening bark. Suddenly, there was a stirring in the earth in front of the tree. The green moss was pushed aside as a fine, silvery shoot crept its way up, growing at an incredible pace, until it finally sprouted a bouquet of delicate pink flowers. The three travellers marvelled at the sapling for a moment, before Tralana muttered a final word to the Eldergleam, and dug about in her satchel for something.

"What did you do?" Ralof stammered, as Tralana took out the green woollen dress given to her by Gerdur, and tore a piece of fabric from it.

The Bosmer remained utterly silent, however, as she sank her hands in to the earth, and scooped up the newly bloomed sapling by its roots, carefully bundling them in the piece of fabric, like a mother swaddling a newborn.

"Death feeds new life," Tralana replied finally. "The blessings of nature are in renewal, not simple maintenance. I could feel the Eldergleam reminding me of that when I asked for its help. This won't cure the Gildergreen, but it _will _provide a new one for the Temple. Come on, we need to get it back to Whiterun as fast as we can. Kynareth's blessing will only last so long…"

Seizing his chance while the elf's dreamy gaze was distracted, Ralof lunged for the sapling in her hand, but found himself thwarted by those lightning fast reflexes of hers that he had noticed in the Temple of Kynareth. Like a gust of wind, Tralana leapt out of his way, punching his reaching arm, and then swiftly drawing her sword, which flashed with a fiery orange light. Something jet black and pointed caught the corner of Ralof's eye, and he realised that Nettlebane was lying almost at his feet. In a flash, he snatched it up, pointing the twisted blade at Tralana, but giving a meaningful look to the Eldergleam Tree.

"Give me the sapling," Ralof demanded, reaching out one hand for the small, blooming plant, while his other turned Nettlebane towards the trunk of the Eldergleam. He knew the Bosmer was desperate for him not to harm the tree, and in all honesty, Ralof did not much want to either, but he needed that sapling, and if this would compel Tralana in to handing it over, then so be it.

"Are you mad?" Tralana cried, advancing on Ralof with her sword still drawn, while the Stormcloak backed away, and circled his way round closer to the Eldergleam. "Don't you know what will happen if you touch that tree? What do you want the sapling for anyway?"

"For Ulfric," Ralof said, raising Nettlebane in an attack-ready position to show the elf that his threat was serious. "The Gildergreen is important to Whiterun. If Ulfric gifted the sapling to the city, it might persuade Jarl Balgruuf to swear his allegiance to the Stormcloak cause…"

Tralana regarded Ralof with a growing expression of disgust, her sword point drawing ever closer. Though Ralof was rather relieved to see that she did not seem to be carrying her bow (with which he was sure she could do much more damage,) he had no desire to prompt the nimble little elf in to a sword fight, particularly seeing as the impressive steel blade she wielded seemed to be enchanted. Anxiously pursing his lips, the Stormcloak tried to think of something that would convince the elf, tried to make her see that the sapling was better off in Ulfric's hands. She was a stranger to this land, but she knew the hardships that it faced, and at the back of his mind, he still thought she would be a valuable asset to the Stormcloak army…

"Balgruuf needs to declare his loyalties sooner or later," Ralof began, lowering Nettlebane slightly in an attempt to make a peaceful gesture. "If not, Ulfric will be forced to march on Whiterun. I know what the Empire refuses to admit, I know that the Stormcloak army can cause much more destruction than they realise. Whiterun could be torn apart! But Ulfric doesn't wish that. And neither do I." He continued to lower the ancient dagger, and softened his gaze as he looked at the elf, silently pleading with her to hear him. Oh, she put on a tough front, but there was sympathy lurking in there somewhere, he was sure of it. Noticing what he had seen in Helgen keep had left him knowing (or at least half knowing,) more about the Bosmer than she realised…

"Please…There doesn't have to be any bloodshed when it comes to Whiterun. A simple gift of the Eldergleam sapling could prevent countless deaths. Just give it to me, and…"

Ralof paused as he suddenly noticed Tralana's fiery gaze shift a little to glance, briefly over his shoulder. He frowned, wondering what had caught her attention. Then his eyes widened.

_The shield-maiden!_

Ralof spun round just in time to dodge the incoming blow from a steel shield, and swung Nettlebane as hard as he could at the shield-maiden's face. She too, however, was quick to dodge his attack, and Ralof was forced to duck as she furiously swung her blade at his head, allowing him to leap round to her shoulder in an attempt to surprise her, and drove Nettlebane forward, right at her neck. Again, the shield-maiden jumped out of his reach, and the blade of Nettlebane instead plunged deep in to something else. The bark of the Eldergleam Tree.

"_No!" _Tralana's cry was like a scream of murder, and she immediately ran forwards, shoving her way past Ralof and the shield-maiden, as she hastily sheathed her sword to grasp the hilt of Nettlebane, pulling it from the heart of the tree. But the damage, it seemed, had already been done.

There was a crackle from a nearby mushroom-covered stump, causing the three travellers to look round. Something was stirring within the very centre of the wood, and a swarm of angry, glowing hornets suddenly filled the air, as the stump began to radiate with a brilliant green light. Tralana reeled back in horror, dropping Nettlebane, and motioning Ralof and the shield-maiden back with her, as she clutched the sapling in her hands, protectively. A strange, glowing, horned figure had emerged from the stump, its flesh seemingly formed of twisted bark, and its hands and feet sprouting with leafy growths, as the cloud of fiery hornets surrounded it like a cloak. More angry buzzing sounded from further down the path that led away from the Eldergleam, and Ralof turned to see that several other glowing figures had erupted from other places in the Sanctuary, their gazes firmly focused on the two Nords and the Bosmer who stood at the base of the bleeding tree. There was, Ralof knew, only one thing the creatures could be.

_Spriggans!_


	16. The Bonestrewn Dragon

**The Bonestrewn Dragon**

Tralana tensed, her fingers wrapped in an iron-like grip around the thick stem of the Eldergleam sapling, as the Spriggan rose up from its home inside the nearby stump. White hot fear flowed without restraint in her veins, making her heart hammer and throb, and an uncomfortable weight of guilt dropped, heavily in to her stomach. She wanted to be strong, wanted to banish the fear like she had done so many times before, but this…_This _was inexcusable. The Eldergleam Tree wept because of her – because she had failed to stop Ralof – and the Spriggans were only doing that which Tralana herself would have done had she found one of the bands of Khajiit woodcutters that sometimes hid in the outskirts of Valenwood, harvesting the graht-oak timbers. They were defending their home. Defending the bones of Y'ffre.

The buzzing cloak of the Spriggan grew louder as it advanced, pulling its gnarled limbs from the mushroom-covered stump, it's strange, hollow eyes glowing with the harsh green fire of a Torchbug. Tralana felt Ralof and Lydia retreat behind her, but Tralana herself stood her ground, feeling that perhaps _now, _her time had come. What had happened in Morrowind and in Valenwood before then had eventually led her to Skyrim, to the headsman's block, but she had escaped her punishment thanks to the black dragon, and Helgen had died instead of her. Something more for her to carry on her shoulders.

Perhaps the Spriggan was here to finally relieve her of her burden? Tralana almost smiled as she saw the creature's knotted, glowing arm reaching for her, its burning, pine-like smell harsh yet somehow comforting. It would be a very appropriate death, she thought…

Suddenly, a steel arrow whistled through the air, striking the Spriggan between its horns, and causing the green light shining in its core to falter. Ralof's hand seized Tralana, roughly by her arm, and dragged her to his side, before he once again drew back the bowstring of his longbow, and fired another arrow, killing the Spriggan where it stood.

"What's the matter with you?" Ralof demanded, spinning round, and unleashing a new arrow on the Spriggans further down the path. "You've got a sword, haven't you? Use it!"

A swarm of furiously buzzing hornets suddenly swamped the group, causing Lydia to shriek and drop Eduj, while Tralana scrambled for cover behind the Eldergleam Tree, still clutching the gifted sapling to her chest. Kneeling out of sight of the Spriggans, Tralana peered down through the leafy shrubs and blooming golden flowers in to the Sanctuary, which was now ablaze with clouds of flaming green hornets, while the Spriggans battled with the figures of the screaming pilgrims below. From here, Tralana could see the dark passageway that led back up to the surface, but it would be impossible for her to simply make a mad dash for freedom. Spriggans stood guard along the entire length of the path, and the plague of hornets was beginning to choke everything, like a writhing veil that threatened to block Tralana's vision completely.

Suddenly, an iron-clad figure clattered across the ground near the Eldergleam, tumbling backwards as though thrown, and Tralana saw Lydia roll in to view, her nose streaming with scarlet blood beneath her iron helmet, and a Spriggan advancing on her with flailing wooden limbs. Without her sword, Lydia swung her shield up at the Spriggan, trying to bash it aside, but the creature seemed as firm and rooted as a tree stump, and only dealt her another furious blow with its gnarled arm. Tralana watched Lydia crumple, a feeling of utter helplessness coming over her. She could not bring herself to harm the Spriggans, and yet she could not simply stand by and watch her housecarl and friend be bludgeoned to death before her…

An arrow soared from nowhere, and struck the attacking Spriggan in the back, making it emit a strange, shrill cry, as it turned to face its attacker. An iron war axe crashed down on the creature's head, and as it fell, limp and lifeless, Ralof suddenly stepped in to view, throwing the dead Spriggan aside, and hauling Lydia to her feet, thrusting Eduj in to her hand.

"Follow me!" he yelled above the buzzing of the hornets, but Lydia suddenly seized the Stormcloak by his hair, yanking his head back, and pointing the tip of Eduj at his throat.

"Where's Tralana?" she demanded through gritted death, as the blood continued to drip down her face and off her chin. "Where's the sapling? What have you done with them, Stormcloak?"

Tralana instantly sprang up, and hurried forward before the shield-maiden could slice open Ralof's throat.

"I'm here, Lydia!" she said, seizing her housecarl's wrist, and forcing her to lower her sword. "There's no time for him! We need to get the sapling out of here, _now!_"

"It would be a lot easier if you'd just fight these things, instead of hiding like a damn coward!" Ralof spat, glaring at the Bosmer. "You could burn us a path out of here, and we could get that precious sapling of yours safely back to Windhelm…"

"The sapling is going to Whiterun!" Tralana shot back, her blade-like teeth gnashing just inches away from Ralof's face. "And don't act as if you didn't bring this down upon us! They wouldn't be attacking if you hadn't been a fool and injured the Eldergleam Tree! You Nords, you don't give a thought to anything except your ridiculous pride and glory!"

Ralof gave a harsh laugh of contempt.

"And I suppose you'll be giving the sapling to Whiterun out of the goodness of your heart?" he sneered. "If you cared anything for the people of this land, you'd deliver the sapling to Ulfric, and ensure the safety of Whiterun! All you want is a reward – A little gold so you can go on your way, run from whatever past it is you're running from! Hauling me to the Temple to save my life was an unbearable chore for you, wasn't it? I suppose if I'd been one of these wild Spriggans, you'd have had a little more true mercy in your heart…?"

An inhuman shriek made the pair of them turn just in time to see Lydia decapitating an approaching Spriggan, which had loomed up behind them through the swarm of glowing hornets. The shield-maiden stood, her eyes staring, determinedly through her helmet, as vivid green sap dripped from her blade.

"You said we had no time for him," she said, pointedly to Tralana, before jerking her head in the direction of the swarmed path. "This way!"

With an echoing battle-cry, the shield-maiden thundered down the path like a furious centaur, sword held high and shield at the ready. The first Spriggan fell like a harmless lump of firewood. Tralana and Ralof exchanged a startled look, before breaking in to a run, following down the newly cleared path in Lydia's wake.

The housecarl seemed to have staked her honour on getting her Thane and the sapling out of the Sanctuary alive and in one piece, as she was making an incredible pace through the Spriggans, the glistening blade of Eduj hacking them aside in explosion after explosion of pale blue frost. But with each one Lydia seemed to cut down, another simply appeared, writhing out of the earth or tearing itself from the core of a tree, until the three of them were overwhelmed and surrounded by the guardians of the Sanctuary.

"There's too many of them!" Ralof said, drawing his war axes, and looking, desperately about.

"You don't say?" Tralana replied, her efforts still focused on protecting the sapling, but her hand now starting to drift, nervously towards the hilt of Sky Fire at her belt. She would have to choose – The sapling or the Spriggans. The only way to stop their attack, she was sure, was to hand over the Eldergleam sapling, but that would leave Whiterun without a Gildergreen, and, more importantly, Tralana didn't know whether the Spriggans would now so easily forgive Ralof and Lydia for what they had done. The Spriggans saw them as a threat, and launching an attack herself, even to defend her companions, would only have made the creatures even more angry (to say nothing of the fact that it would have gone against everything Tralana believed in.) They had to flee, but they were surrounded…

And then she remembered.

"Keep them off!" Tralana urged Ralof, kneeling close to the ground with the sapling in her lap, and closing her eyes.

Ralof stared down at the Bosmer for a moment, then started, and made a swift flurry of his war axes, as a Spriggan suddenly rushed towards him.

"What are you _doing?_" the Nord almost sighed in frustration, before he charged at another approaching Spriggan that was moving to attack Tralana, who made no motion to defend herself. "This is no time to offer your last prayer to the gods! We're not dead yet, you know!"

Tralana shut out Ralof's voice, shut out everything that was happening around her, and simply listened for the heartbeat of life. There was so much thriving around her that Tralana was almost overwhelmed by the burning golden light that seared in her mind, but she focused, picking out each individual pulse and breath, movement and aura, until there were only six lights left shimmering in her mind's eye. These were all sentient creatures with blood and flesh – Herself, Lydia, Ralof, and three more, quite distant auras, clearly not human or elf, but animal. The heartbeats of the pilgrims were all quiet now – the Spriggans had shown no mercy, even to Kynareth's faithful – but Tralana focused on the one living aura that was familiar to her. One which she had felt and connected with before, and which would answer to the Command that she now let ring out inside her head…

Moments later, there was a sudden, violent stirring from further down in the Sanctuary, and Ralof and Lydia looked up to see the Spriggans being knocked aside, as a great, stampeding black shape made its way up the path towards them.

Allie.

With a triumphant smile, Tralana sprinted forward with the sapling in one hand, grasped a handful of the mare's black mane and snapped reins, and flung herself up around Allie's neck and in to the saddle.

"Come on!" she called to Ralof and Lydia, leaning forwards and clinging on as best she could with her knees, as Allie turned about with a loud whinny, and barged her way back through the attacking Spriggans with all the strength of a mammoth.

Ralof shook his head in disbelief.

"Damn elves and their magic!" he muttered, before he and Lydia sprinted after the galloping horse, Spriggans tumbling from the path before them.

* * *

The act of clambering out of the Sanctuary, back out in to the fresh air of Skyrim, was almost nightmarish. A handful of Spriggans still followed them, the hornets stinging and burning their skin, but their escape was slowed because of Allie. The slope leading up to the cave exit was steep, and it was a miracle that the horse had managed to clamber her way down through the narrow passage without becoming stuck or falling (Tralana admitted that she had been overly zealous with the Command. She had stirred the animal in to a mad panic, making her desperate to reach them. It was a reckless use of her gift.)

When the mare finally pulled and clambered her way free with the encouragement of Ralof, Tralana and Lydia, the three of them scrambled out behind her with the Spriggans in hot pursuit, staggering through the flowering glade, and wincing at the burning light of the sunset. Tralana swiftly drew her sword, and cut the reins of the still tethered horses, throwing Bruna's to Lydia, while she ran with Frost, and Ralof tackled and steadied a frightened Allie.

"Quickly!" she urged, taking out the remains of Gerdur's dress, and using it to delicately wrap the Eldergleam sapling, before carefully storing it in her saddlebag. "They won't follow us far. Once we're a good distance from the Sanctuary, we'll be safe."

"We'd better be!" Ralof said, knotting Allie's reins together again, and hauling himself up in to the saddle. "Damn me to Oblivion if I'm slain fleeing from an enemy! That's the last time we're following your code, elf!"

"Tralana…" Lydia's voice suddenly called, nervously.

"There's no time, Lydia!" Tralana said, leaping up on to Frost, and turning him to face the wide expanse of the valley. "Just head west like Mehrunes Dagon is behind you…!"

"No, Tralana," Lydia's voice came again. "They're not following us."

Stunned, Tralana turned Frost about, and saw the glowing forms of the Spriggans retreating back in to the hidden entrance of the cave in the flowering glade. The Bosmer stared, a slight frown creasing her ridged brow. The Spriggans had followed them all the way out of the Sanctuary, but now they suddenly turned back, despite the fact that the adventurers were still relatively close to the entrance. In fact, the Spriggans almost looked as though they were…_retreating _from something. Something had scared them.

An ominous wind blew from the north-eastern sky, and Tralana's eyes widened while Frost stirred in a nervous manner beneath her, as the wind brought a terrifying sound along with it.

It was a roar. An unmistakable, sky-quaking, and all too familiar sounding roar.

"By the gods!" Ralof cried, while Allie tossed her head and whinnied. _"Look!"_

Tralana did not want to turn her head as the Nord pointed, but she found her eyes looking upwards anyway; and, as expectant as she had been of the sight, her heart still froze for a moment, as the outline of a pair of great, pale wings became visible through the fiery clouds. Its flight was determined, aimed, as it swept down from its distant perch on Bonestrewn Crest. It knew they were there. And it was coming straight for them…

"_Go!"_

Without a moment's hesitation, the three riders were off, galloping at a frantic pace across the grey tundra, while the roars of the dragon grew in volume behind them, its wing-beats pounding on the air. Goosebumps rose on the back of Tralana's neck as she heard the dragon gathering its breath. But then she noticed something, something which almost made her look back in astonishment in to the eyes of the beast pursuing them. It _spoke._

_**"****FO…KRAH, DIIN!"**_

An icy wind blew at Tralana's back, and she could hear the fierce river of frostbite that the dragon breathed forth rushing through the air. But in amongst that were the words, the words that she had never heard before, but which were unmistakably of the same tongue that she had read on the Word Walls in Shroud Hearth and Bleak Falls Barrow. So it was true, what Lydia and Jarl Balgruuf had told her. The power that she possessed – the Voice – was one shared by the dragons, and the words that turned to such strange magic when she spoke them were words of the Dragon Language.

The ground shook as the gigantic form of the dragon soared past, so close that Tralana could have reached out to touch its scaled flank, and she was forced to use her Command to keep Frost from bolting and throwing her from the saddle. She took a moment to glance at the creature, its back covered in fearsome, dark spines, its pale wings veined with a deep blue, and its small, diamond-like eyes the colour of ice. Tralana turned her gaze resolutely back to the valley before her, as the dragon swept up in to the sky directly above them, preparing itself for another attack. She had just wanted to be sure, and now she knew. It was not the dragon she had seen at Helgen. Looking up, Tralana saw that Ralof was galloping ahead with ease, his body bent low to Allie's neck, clearly the most experienced rider of the group, while Lydia was…

Lydia…

Tralana hastily pulled on her reins, bringing Frost to a halt, despite the fact that the shadow of the dragon loomed above her. She looked about, but saw nothing but swaying grass and mountain flowers, and the rising columns of steam from the geysers in the distance.

Where was Lydia?

"_Tralana!" _a strangled cry suddenly made Tralana turn Frost about, and she saw Lydia lying, sprawled on the ground some 20 feet away, crying out and wincing as she tried to drag herself forward. Bruna lay near her, frozen and still, brown hair covered with a thick layer of white frost. The housecarl had fallen from her slain mount, and was obviously injured.

High above, the dragon wheeled about in the air, its great wings unfurling as it hovered to survey its new target, and with a mighty roar, it plunged forwards, diving back towards the earth like a hawk swooping down on its prey. Tralana hurriedly dismounted from Frost, but a moment later, Ralof was beside her, trying to push Allie's reins in to her hand.

"Run!" he ordered, glancing up at the approaching dragon, and drawing his bow. "Just keep going! I'll get to her, and – "

The Nord barely had time to blink in confusion before his bow was knocked from his hands, and he suddenly found himself being dragged by two fleeing horses, their reins thrust in to his grasp as Tralana slapped them on the haunches, spurring them in to a run. Ralof's bravery was admirable, Tralana had to admit, but it was also ridiculous. Armed with only a longbow and two iron war axes, and with a set of armour that did not even cover his upper arms, there was virtually nothing Ralof could do to protect Lydia against the dragon. Tralana, on the other hand, had been studying Irileth's Iron Flesh spell.

Clenching her fists and summoning every ounce of magicka that she had, Tralana sprinted towards her housecarl, racing the shadow of the dragon that was soaring above her, as she strained her memory to remember the complicated incantation. A blue light flickered, briefly in her hands, then steadily grew stronger. The heaving of the dragon's lungs rumbled over her head as Tralana felt the spell crackling between her fingers, and just as she reached Lydia, the dragon's _Thu'um _boomed out again;

_**"FO…KRAH, DIIN!"**_

The Iron Flesh spell encased Tralana's body, wrapping her in a cold, sparking energy that gave her the strange feeling of being under a very close shield of crystal or glass, and she threw herself down on top of Lydia, covering the housecarl as best she could as the dragon's frostbite breath rained down on them. It was a surreal feeling, seeing the violent, ice white blast of power surrounding her like a mist, and yet not being able to feel a bit of it.

When the _Thu'um _of the dragon finally ceased, Tralana didn't pause for an instant. The creature was close to them – its mere presence made the air feel heavier – and in one, swift, violent motion, Tralana drew Sky Fire from its sheath, flung herself from the ground, and seized one of the spines on the dragon's head, using it to haul herself higher, and plunge the blade deep in to the side of the dragon's face.

Half a moment later, and the Bosmer was cursing herself. Writhing in pain and in anger, the dragon beat its enormous wings, and began to rise up, shaking its head, and forcing Tralana to clamber up on to the beast's neck in order to avoid being thrown like a ragdoll. Sky Fire was stuck, lodged in the dragon's thick scales, and Tralana clung to its hilt and desperately tried to pull it free, while also struggling to hold herself steady on the furious dragon, as it climbed higher in to the air. The ground was vanishing below her, but Tralana kept her gaze fixed on Sky Fire as she still fought to pull it free, until finally, the gleaming steel blade withdrew from the dragon's scales in a shower of crimson blood, and Tralana, calling on every ounce of strength that she had, jumped to her feet on the dragon's neck, and drove her blade forcefully down in to its skull.

It proved to be a killing blow. The dragon gave its final roar, its wings suddenly folding and falling still. There was a pause – a terrifying pause that seemed to last forever – and then, the air was rushing past Tralana too fast for her to breathe it in. Her stomach lurched and her heart missed a beat in the sickening sensation of falling, and the Bosmer simply shut her eyes, and held on to the blood-soaked hilt of Sky Fire for dear life.

A gigantic force, accompanied by the sound of an earthquake or explosion, threw her bodily upwards, and Tralana choked and gasped as she felt earth falling all around her in a thick shower. Limbs flailing, she tumbled backwards across hard scales as Sky Fire slipped from her grasp, and opened her eyes to see a confusing blur of dirt, mountains, and sky, until finally she rolled to a stop on the churned earth. And then, everything was quiet and still…

"_Tralana!"_

With a groan that made her lungs ache with the effort, Tralana slowly lifted her head, shaking the grogginess from her mind, and saw Lydia limping towards her, leaning heavily on Ralof's shoulder. As soon as they were close enough, Lydia shoved the Stormcloak from her and bent down, fighting the obvious pain as she stood on her injured ankle, and hauled her Thane to her feet. Tralana felt bruised and dizzy, and the hot trickle of blood seeped out from beneath her armour, but they were shallow cuts and scratches only. She glanced back at the gleaming hilt of Sky Fire, which was still protruding from the skull of the dragon, and realised that holding on to the sword as the beast fell from the air had probably saved her life.

Suddenly, Lydia grabbed Tralana's shoulders, and turned the Bosmer to face her, her eyes blazing with anger.

"What were you _thinking?" _she cried, shaking the elf so hard that Tralana winced in pain. "Riding the back of a dragon? Slaying it in mid-air? That was the stupidest, most fool-hardy thing I've ever seen!" There was a pause, and then the Nord's face suddenly broke in to an elated grin, and she flung her arms around Tralana and almost crushed her in a hug. "You'd make a fine Nord!"

Tralana fought down the urge to laugh, and simply waited for her housecarl to release her, smiling, wryly to herself.

When Lydia did at last let go, Tralana turned to survey the dead dragon, its jaws gaping in a ferocious death-roar, and its pale blue eyes rolling back in to its bloodied head.

"I might see if I can get one of its teeth out," Lydia commented, while Tralana walked back up to the dragon's head to retrieve Sky Fire. "It would make quite the prize to bring home to Whiterun. I could show it to Farkas…And the rest of the Companions would be quite impressed, of course…"

Tralana smiled a little and shook her head, then gripped the hilt of Sky Fire in her hands, placing a firm boot against the dragon's corpse while she pulled, and at last yanked her sword free. But as she looked at the crimson-drenched blade, a glimmer of golden fire caught her eye. She glanced up, and saw that the dragon's scales were falling away, consumed by brilliant gold sparks that flickered like flames, and the outline of the dragon began to glow with a pale aura. Tralana drew in her breath. It was happening again!

Shimmering white light surrounded her, and all at once, with a fierce whooshing sound, a bright spectrum of colours flew from the dragon and hit Tralana like a powerful spell, bringing back that strange sensation of knowledge being poured in to her mind, filling her until she could take no more. There was a haze of new memories, snippets of a language that was so foreign and yet so familiar, and at last, a feeling of peace – Peace unlike any she'd ever known, that felt like divine light flowing through her veins, and suddenly, Tralana understood the gentle goddess Kyne in a way that no priest or priestess could ever have given her, and the life force of every creature hummed louder around her, so that she truly felt connected with them…

"_Look out!"_

The cry tore Tralana away from the feeling of the dragon's soul burning within her, and she turned to see a bear thundering across the tundra towards them, the same bear that she and Lydia had seen attacking the elk outside the Sanctuary. Her reaction was instinctive;

_**"DREM!"**_

A wave of violet light hit the bear, stopping it in its tracks. But, far from being harmed by the Shout, the creature seemed strangely at ease. It behaved as though the people it had been charging for just moments ago were not even there, and slowly lumbered away, its black eyes glazed over with an odd violet sheen.

A smile touched Tralana's lips, and she turned to look at Lydia, then froze as her eyes fell on the person who was now standing just feet away, his eyes wide with awe.

Ralof.

"It…It _can't _be!" the Nord stammered, his steps cautious as he approached Tralana, as though he were approaching a savage dog. "You…_You're _the one the Greybeards were calling for, that night their Voices were heard from the summit of the Throat of the World! They called for the Dovahkiin…" He stopped just a step away from Tralana, looking her up and down as though seeing her for the first time. And then his brow creased and his upper lip curled in confusion.

"_You're _the Dragonborn?"

Tralana's face fell, and she felt like groaning at the Nord's utterly underwhelmed and almost horrified tone. It was as though she were a painting he'd been desperate to see, but the unveiling had left him thoroughly disappointed. While Tralana was only mildly annoyed by Ralof's reaction, however, Lydia seemed to have taken quite a bit more offense.

"Show some respect, Stormcloak!" the shield-maiden snapped, thrusting out the blade of Eduj between Ralof and Tralana. "She has the blood of Akatosh! You'll know your place, or you'll…!"

But at that moment, pain overwhelmed Lydia's features, and she collapsed with a yell against the wing of the dead dragon, her injured leg buckling beneath her.

"Lydia!" Tralana cried, quickly kneeling down and removing her housecarl's helmet, revealing the blood and sweat that so heavily stained her face. "Lydia, you're hurt. Keep still, we'll get you back to Whiterun as soon as we can…"

"Lydia?" Ralof said, curiously stepping forwards as Tralana wiped the blood from her friend's face, and then reeling back in shock. "Lady Lydia? _Jarl Balgruuf's daughter?"_

"What of it?" Lydia said, glaring up at the Stormcloak, as Tralana tried to haul off her iron boot. "It's nothing, my Thane. I've travelled with far worse. We shouldn't delay in returning to Ivarstead, the Greybeards – "

"_Thane?" _Ralof's jaw fell open as he turned to Tralana. "By Talos, how long did I leave you in Whiterun?"

"Shut _up!" _Tralana barked, raising her sword and pointing it at Ralof. "Go and fetch the horses! We're taking the sapling and Lydia back to the Temple of Kynareth!"

The Stormcloak seemed to almost flinch at the elf's anger, but only for a moment. Casting one final, curious look at Tralana, he turned slowly, and began to walk back to where he had left Frost and Allie. Lydia's face was anxious as she watched Ralof's retreating form.

"Tralana, he _knows!"_ the housecarl hissed, urgently, bending her head towards Tralana. "He knows you're the Dragonborn, that you're on your way to High Hrothgar…!"

"High Hrothgar can wait until you're safely back at the Temple, Lydia," Tralana said, sternly. "And yes, I know. But it's alright, we've nothing to fear from him…"

"He's a Stormcloak!" Lydia spat, her eyes flashing as they turned in Ralof's direction. "You shouldn't trust him. If we let him go now, he might reveal your name to Ulfric Stormcloak. No, we can't let him leave. We'll just have to convince him to return to Whiterun with us. Once we're there, I'll inform the Jarl, and have him thrown in the Dragonsreach dungeon. He won't be able to tell a soul in there."

A slight lump formed in Tralana's throat, but she said nothing.


End file.
